


Dark God

by Spiced_Wine



Series: Dark Prince ~ The Darkness Has Its Own Light [4]
Category: Lord of the Rings - Tolkien, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Darkfic, Graphic Sex, Incest, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-05-05
Updated: 2010-08-01
Packaged: 2017-10-09 08:05:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 38
Words: 92,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/84857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiced_Wine/pseuds/Spiced_Wine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><br/>Vanimórë's Imperium rises in the south, bringing order in the wake of conquest, and beyond it's might the Re-united Kingdom thrives in peace. Gil-galad returns to Lindon with a youthful Fëanor who has his own power and destiny. Yet an evil undermines Vanimórë's rule, and taints the kingdoms beyond. His subjects believe their Emperor demands blood sacrifice and name him the Dark God.<br/>And at the end there will be sacrifice indeed, and a breaking of the heart...</p><p>Although he no longer possessed physical form he felt a hand, strong as steel grip his, the touch of a mind filled with fire.</p><p><i>I am with thee! </i> Fëanor, shining like the Silmarilli.</p><p><i>I have thee!</i> Glorfindel's golden storm-aura.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Rise of Empire

**Author's Note:**

> Fourth in the [Dark Prince](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiced_Wine/series)  
> story arc.
> 
> Warning:this story contains content matter including M/M slash, incest, violence, graphic sex, rape and torture.
> 
> The lands and cities referred to in Dark Lands, Dark Blood and Dark God, with the exception of New Cuiviénen, are © to the Lindëfirion site, who permit their maps to be used if credit is given. I thank them for their wonderful work.
> 
> Disclaimer: I merely borrow the writings of JRR Tolkien. My stories are written purely for pleasure, and no money is made from them. However the original characters of Vanimórë Gorthaurion, Elgalad Meluion, and Tindómion Maglorion, the Dark Prince AU of Tolkien's universe, and the plotlines are © to Sian Lloyd-Pennell. 2004-2010 and may not be used, archived or reproduced without my permission. (Ask, please)

**The Rise Of Empire**

 

On a hard, stony plain the army of Fal Carth met the legions of Tanith, and was destroyed. No help had come from the other kingdoms. Vanimórë had ensured it would not. He had visited each of the rulers and offered them extended life if they owned him as their King. For thousands of years these people had heard the tales of Sauron's power and his nine deathless servants. More than power, more than wealth, Men desired immortality.  
  
Sauron had been a dread and distant power who surrounded his throne with fire. This new power was very visible. Only Abisra, King of Fal Carth was young enough, brash enough and courageous enough to defy the Warlord of Tanith, but when he saw the host which awaited him, he demanded to invoke the ancient tradition of single combat. Vanimórë gravely accepted, and Abisra was dead within moments. Even as he died, the Steelguard flung themselves to the onset, crashing into the lines of Carthian cavalry. Demoralized by their King's death, the army was routed, and Vanimórë rode into the city.  
  
It was here that he broke with Tanith and set masons to build a wall across the border between the realms.  
  
"Thou wilt never be attacked by me," he told Khanad. "Behind this wall Tanith will grow and prosper."  
  
Khanad had not believed him, but Vanimórë did not lie. Tanith would become the one realm in all the Harad which was counted as a friend and ally of the Dark God.  
  
Fully a third of the Tanithian warriors elected to join Vanimórë, seeking conquest and glory. They believed him paramount in battle, and their faith made his army unstoppable. Kings bowed before him and great crowds watched his procession through the streets of conquered cities, all in black upon a black war-horse, the purple and sable banner above him.  
  
In the Seven Dominions he consolidated his rule, and the kings died. Their people swore fealty to the new Dark God.  
  
The Lands of Spice now lay open, facing an enemy whom asked that they simply let him in and avoid bloodshed. The Merchant Princes, fat on wealth, lay down like paid harlots. This God did not demand their lives or riches, and his reputation ran ahead of him. It was said that he could not be defeated in battle, that he could change shape, walk unseen, read the thoughts in a man's mind. Some scoffed at these rumors, and the truculent prince of Batri mocked him as an _'Arse-loving impostor.'_ His severed head was found upon his pillow the next morning, a note pinned to the bed by a dagger.  
  
''_Two choices, gentlemen._''  
  
Vanimórë knew Men, knew what motivated them. He earned the allegiance of the armies because he was a warrior himself. His will pulled his legions irresistibly with him. And he cared; physicians moved with the army, those who could not longer fight were pensioned off, widows received a fixed sum, ensuring they did not starve. The army was a good choice of career, under Vanimórë, and a glamor came to surround the warriors who marched under the banner of the Dark God.  
  
''Husband, he is dangerous,'' Sathari said one day. "Whatever he promised you — "  
  
"He saved my life, he could have let me die on the isle and taken Tanith," Khanad responded. "He did not. He has promised us autonomy."  
  
Sathari's father had received reports from his spies of the war-storm and conquest of the south, and he pondered.  
  
''Will naught stop this one?'' he demanded of his adviser. ''Is he indeed some God, the Lord Sauron incarnate again? The assassins fail again and again.''  
  
''He is not Sauron,'' Pallando replied as one who knew. ''He is a god, but first and foremost he is a warrior, Sire. Your assassins,'' he smiled with a hint of ridicule. ''They are children in comparison.''  
  
''Does he pose a threat to us?''  
  
''He cannot bring an army through any pass to the west and south." Pallando assured him, calm. ''This is not an easy land to conquer. The Lord Sauron knew that. It is as well though that you offer Khand an alliance. ''  
  
The khagan twisted his many rings.  
''Not Sauron, you say, but mayhap a greater threat. Sauron left us alone. This one...his army worships him A charismatic leader with a large enough army can do anything.''  
  
''Yes,'' Pallando agreed. ''He can.''  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
** Imladris **  
  
  
  
''You do believe him, then.''  
  
Elrohir looked up.  
  
''Yes, I believe him.'' He rose and gazed out of the long window. Dawn slid spears of sunlight down into the valley.  
  
"It seems to me few will survive."  
  
''I have been thinking of Doriath," Elrohir said.  
  
Elladan said, ''Menegroth. And Nargothrond? Both built underground. But the two of us and those who remain cannot build such.''  
  
''There are Dwarves in the Ered Luin, and there is this'' Elrohir handed his brother the sheet of vellum. Elladan unfolded it.  
  
''Who brought this message?''  
  
''One of the great Eagles.''  
  
''From the Noldor. Gil-galad wishes to return to Lindon.'' The grey eyes gleamed.  
  
"With Noldor craftsmen and the Dwarfs, somewhere could be built in the mountains."  
  
Elladan walked to the table, drew a map forward. ''Gil-galad means to take this route, and look: Vanimórë has taken Bellakar and the eastern desert. ''  
  
Over the years the twins had mapped Vanimórë's conquests; coloured pins showing the progression. He moved like a tide which now had halted at a line which ran from the coast of Bellakar on the west to the border of Khand in the east. Beyond that line lay Gondor. Eldarion had been there when the Dark God signed a treaty with Elessar, and vowed never to raise arms against the High Kingdom.  
  
''He will escort Gil-galad through the Harad, and they will be granted safe passage through the High Kingdom.''  
  
Elrohir sat down, dipped his quill in the standish, and paused. ''Are we decided?''  
  
''Do you even have to ask?'' Elladan said.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
**The Imperium **  
  
  
  
He renamed the city Pashaar. It lay at the midpoint of the conquered lands and was ancient, the crux of several trading routes. And trade, these days, was easier than before, because where the Dark God marched, his engineers were with him, and they built straight roads.   
  
Twenty-five years after Vanimórë's first conquest, he held a great feast in Pashaar. Tent-cities sprang up about the walls, and the streets seethed.  
  
On the first day, Vanimórë rode into the city in full panoply. People crowded to balconies and flat roofs to watch. Under the stark blue sky the lockstep march of the legions, the clash of hooves, drummed on the streets.  
  
In the plaza before the palace, the warriors lined up in perfect formation and Vanimórë mounted the steps. He offed his helm, raised his hand. His legions saluted, and their battle-cry went up into the hot air.  
  
In the palace, the guests gathered to feast. From Tanith came Palantir, the heir of Khanad. As yet unwed, he would receive petitions for his hand; such a gathering was a perfect marriage-mart. Many eyes were on him, and Eldarion of the High Kingdom, another unmarried prince.  
  
In unrelieved black Vanimórë greeted his guests. There was an attitude of almost negligent ease in the way he bore himself, but power surrounded him like heat. He did not need jewel or crown to proclaim who he was.  
  
He was worshiped, he whom had forbidden such a thing. Men liked their Gods to be visible. The Haradhrim had long come under the sway of Sauron and Morgoth, and their rites were often bloody. Where he could, Vanimórë stamped out such rituals in savage retaliatory lessons which only added to the rumor that blood sacrifice pleased him. He killed, he conquered, what else would he desire but blood? Not men or women to share his couch, it seemed, though there were some who remembered his silver-haired lover whom had vanished years before.  
  
  
  
~~~  
  
  
**New Cuiviénen **  
  
  
  
The straw target sprouted arrows like a porcupine's back there. The archer lowered his bow, walked across to to retrieve them.  
  
''Too easy for thee.''  
  
Elgalad smiled as he turned. ''Blindfolded?'' he suggested.  
  
''Now that is surprisingly arrogant.'' Maglor set down wine. Under the trees the greensward was starred with windflowers. The very air seemed green with spring's urgent growth.  
They sat down, the sun dancing in the cool yellow wine.  
  
''How long has it been?'' Maglor asked.  
  
There had been an assassination attempt in the city of Zunad, and had Elgalad's reflexes been slower, it would have succeeded. Vanimórë brought him to New Cuiviénen shortly after. Assassins had tried to take his own life many times, and as this proved impossible, had targeted the one closest to him, who had too much influence, or so it was believed. Ambitious rulers decided the silver Elf was an obstruction to Vanimórë's marriage. So far they had been disappointed. The Dark Prince showed no inclination to take wives.  
  
Maglor's motives in befriending Elgalad were birthed in genuine kindness and his unadmitted desire to see Vanimórë. He had not set eyes on him since their last encounter, and the only news he heard from Glorfindel was of the Far Harad being welded forcibly into one Empire.  
  
Elgalad drank. ''The autumn,'' he said.  
  
_ How can Vanimórë leave him?_ Maglor wondered with a thrill of anger. _Is he truly becoming something terrible, something that no longer needs Elgalad, or love? _  
  
''He is busy. I know how hard he w-works.''  
  
"Is he kind to thee?" Maglor asked. "Have his conquests...changed him?"  
  
Elgalad looked up from his wine-cup. ''There _is_ a ch-change in him,'' he said. "Hurt me? No." And there was a flash of warning in his lovely eyes.  
  
Maglor began to say something, then raised his head, hearing the sound of hoof-beats in the distance. They were coming at a breakneck gallop, far too fast among the trees.  
A raking grey horse burst into the clearing. At some unspoken command, it came to a snorting, stamping halt and in a swirl of raven hair, its young rider dismounted. His smile was a sensual flash which sat strangely on such a young face, and was so familiar that Maglor's nerves sparked. The eyes that examined them were fiery gems.  
  
''Fëanor." Maglor attempted to frown. ''Dost thou not know better than to ride full-tilt through the trees?''  
  
''I was riding with Celegorm.'' The child tossed his head. ''He did not want me to come here, so I lost him. May I have a drink?'' Those marvelous eyes fixed on Elgalad, who, assaulted by the memory of Fëanor within him, taking him into the flames, hoped nothing showed on his face.  
  
"So thou art Elgalad," Fëanor said.  
  
"Yes, and thou art Fëanor," Elgalad replied. He went into the house, returning with milk, dried fruit and meat. Fëanor thanked him and sat down, casting curious looks from under long lashes.  
''Celegorm would not come,'' he said over a bite. ''He said Elgalad is...out of bounds, but of course he did not mean to me.''  
  
"Elgalad is a guest," Maglor told him, hiding a smile at that purest form of Fëanorion arrogance. "Fingolfin has said none are to disturb him unless they are invited.''  
"Oh, I knew that of course. I saw it in Fingolfin's mind. That was why I wanted to come and see."  
Maglor and Elgalad shared a glance.  
''Thou canst see thoughts?'' Maglor asked.  
  
"If I wish to," Fëanor said matter-of-factly. "Mother said it was uncivil and I should not, but sometimes the thoughts are so loud I cannot avoid hearing them." A faintly wicked and very adult glint was in his eyes. "Thou wert thinking of a lover, both of thee."  
  
"Now that is enough," Maglor raised one hand. "Fanari is right. People do not always wish to share their private thoughts."  
  
All of them found it strange to be around Fëanor. He was curious, quicksilver, and one was never sure what thoughts moved behind his ageless eyes. At times, and increasingly, his expression, his words were not those of a child at all.  
  
''I will try not to look. But is is hard.'' The boy came lithely to his feet.  
  
"I will ride back with thee," Maglor told him. "If thou art all right, Elgalad?''  
  
''Of course.'' Elgalad smiled.  
  
''I will come back and see thee again, Meluion.'' The black head tilted. ''If I may?'' This with a charming smile.  
  
''Thou art w-welcome.''  
  
When they were gone through the trees, Elgalad walked to the workshop at the rear of the house. The aroma of wood-shavings was strong and sweet, but another scent that drifted through them brought his head up. Arms came around him from behind.  
Elgalad's bones turned to water, to fire. He turned within the strong arms. His eyes had gone wide and wild.  
  
''I have missed thee,'' Vanimórë said.  
  
  
Elgalad arched back as he was taken, the wonderful, welcome pain crashing into pleasure. He knew Vanimórë was devouring him. He did not care. He wanted to be taken to the Anguish every time.   
And he was.  
  
Sun-spiced raven hair coiled on Elgalad's damp skin as Vanimórë drank his spilled seed.  
  
''I missed _thee_'' Elgalad said, languid now. ''Take me back with thee.''  
  
He asked each time Vanimórë came, and each time was refused.  
  
''It is no place for thee. I want thee here.''  
  
Elgalad let out a breath. "What has been happening?" he asked.  
  
Vanimórë lay back, drawing him close. Their bodies moulded together.  
''I had some setbacks in Bellakar, flux in the army. Pallando, who has long served Chey Sart, came secretly to speak with me. I will not leave thee so long again.'' His fingers delved gently through Elgalad's hair.  
  
There was so little time left, so little time.  
  
''I need thee, never doubt that.'' He rose. ''I will get wine. No, stay there. I have enough servants. Let _ me _serve _thee._''  
  
Elgalad laughed.  
  
He brought back wine and poured it, his eyes searching the naked beauty displayed for him. There was a sense of otherness about Elgalad now, even as his lovemaking climbed to heights that few sought or could attain. His skin was pearl-white, his eyes seemed to look beyond the world. Aching with grief, Vanimórë kissed him.  
  
_I wish the world were simpler, but the truth is, I need thy purity. My soul is too twisted from its roots to love thee as cleanly as thou dost love me. I know I am killing thee, and I cannot stop. _  
  
He said, aloud, ''I saw Fëanor and Maglor. I chose to wait until they departed.''  
  
''He can see peoples thoughts clearly.'' Elgalad said. "I wondered what he might see...or remember."  
  
''Everything, soon enough. His memories come ever closer to revealing themselves. It is to be expected.'' Vanimórë drained his cup and set it aside  
  
The rain-colored eyes darkened with desire.  
"Thou art not leaving."  
  
"Not yet." He should leave and could not. Who was more addicted, he or Elgalad? And as they came together again, he sent out a call.  
  
_Maglor, I will come soon._  
  
For that was the other half of what he needed. ~  
  
  
  
~~~ 


	2. The Threshold of Remembrance

**New Cuiviénen**

''I knew he would find thee.'' Celegorm was waiting beyond the woods. He flashed those remarkable pearl-black eyes at the truant. 

''Of course,'' Fëanor agreed, unrepentant and bringing a reluctant smile to Celegorm's face.

Maglor looked at the boy. ''Thou didst feel me?''

''Of course. I can find any-one I know.'' Fëanor told him. prosaic.

Celegorm raised his at Maglor brows as they fell in together. It was apparent that Fëanor was on the threshold of power and memory both. Fanari said he had not spoken of the past, but was already drawn to the jewel-smiths halls. And he had always been drawn to his sons and Fingolfin.

Fëanor lead them into his mother's house as if he owned it, and servants brought wine at his command. Even at this young age he had presence; an arrogant child, and utterly charming.

"Tonight we feast with Fingolfin," Maglor reminded him as the brothers rose to depart. Fëanor smiled.

''Yes. Wilt thou play?''

''For thee, of course.''

''I love thy voice,'' Fëanor said simply, and lifted his head for a farewell kiss. He both demanded and gave lavish affection. "Oh, Maglor. Mother wishes to speak to thee."

''I can keep nothing from him," she said with some asperity, when Maglor found her. She drew him down into the many-levelled gardens. "I want to show thee this." Opening a small leather pouch, she tipped its contents into her hand. It was a bracelet made from rose-gold, fashioned in a lace-work of strands and it bore three stones. Faceted diamonds caught the sunlight, scattered prismatic gleams over Maglor's face.

''He made it for me,'' she said.

''_He_ made it? Alone? But he is so young. It is beautiful.'' Maglor held it up. ''He has never showed me anything he has made as of yet.''

''He works with Celebrimor and Curufin. He has designs which he works on, Celebrimbor saw them once, so did I when I went to his rooms one day. They are always of three gems. Always.''

''The Silmarilli." Maglor's eyes widened. "He knows all the tales save the one of his rebirth.''

Fëanor had been told that he was a special child, that his father was not in New Cuiviénen, but that one day he would meet him. He seemed to accept this. Surrounded by so many who loved him, he did not feel the loss. 

''He is very close to recollection,'' Fanari said. "And he asks too many questions about...about _himself!_ I do not think we should have told him Fëanor died dueling Morgoth."

"What else could we have said? It was almost true." Maglor looked up at the house. ''He got away from Celegorm today, came to Elgalad's lodge. He said he felt where I was.''

Her brows crooked. ''Did Fëanor say anything to him?'' 

"Nothing, although the way he looked at him..." 

She laughed. "Yes. His looks are eloquent. How is Elgalad?" 

"Well enough. Missing Vanimórë." Betraying colour stained his cheekbones. Fanari regarded him thoughtfully. ''And so dost thou." 

''I am no longer mad, Fanari.''

"_All_ the Fëanorions are a little mad," she pronounced, smiling. "Thou art missing thy father, also."

His flush deepened. ''Enough!''

"At a certain degree of power conventional rules become unimportant," Fanari said. "Fëanor was Fëanor before he was brother or a father."

"Has our son spoken to thee of Gil?" Maglor asked attempting to change the subject, and earning a sardonic look.

"He is as skilled at fighting his desires as thou," she threw at him. "Very well. At least Tindómion _is_ my business. I lived through this in Lindon, all through the Second Age. He loved Gil-galad so long, and the situation then made it impossible. He became used to denying himself and I always thought..." She hesitated.

"What?"

"I thought he wanted Gil-galad to over-rule him by force."

Maglor nodded. He fought against Vanimórë; he reveled in it when his struggle was overcome. It was rooted in pride and the need to know some-one was as strong, as passionate in their desire.

"And Gil-galad is equally proud," Fanari added.

A clear, light voice called from the house and they turned. Fëanor was on the balcony, tugging off his tunic preparatory to bathing. A smile lightened Fanari's face as she waved up at him.

''I affected to know nothing for thousands of years," she said under her breath. "They will cut through this knot if given time. It has not been long, after all."

"No," he agreed. "And thou art right. We are very much alike." His smile was a whit bitter as he gazed up to where the child had vanished. "Thou lovest him. And his sons...we adore him. We always did."

"Of course," she said. "And he loves all of thee. I think some do not yet realize how deeply and fiercely he can love. They always thought of Fëanor as the one who brought doom upon our people, not the man who loved his father so much that when Finwë was slain his grief was so great he went mad."

~~~

There was music in the great gardens that night. The stars were so thick in the sky that they seemed to draw the souls of the Elves up to them. Maglor's voice was gold, a paean to creation itself. At times like this the echo of the Great Music could still be heard, like the last note of a harp.

Elgalad, from his relaxed perch in one of the trees, watched the stars also as they netted the unfurling leaves, and he smiled, drifting in the afterglow of sex.

_''At sunset, tomorrow,''_ Vanimórë had promised, before he left him. Elgalad smiled, arched back his throat in pleasurable memory.

~~~

Vanimórë's closest advisers were accustomed to his sudden absences. It was said that between dusk and dawn he traveled the Empire, and knew everything that passed in the most remote regions. Although it was not strictly true, the myth served his purposes. Ever he searched for any sign of Sauron, who had slipped away and was...somewhere.

''You build a legend, Sire,'' Pallando had said admiringly.

Pallando. Now _that_ had surprised him.

''Why wouldst thou leave a land which thou hast served for so long, and come to me?'' Vanimórë inquired, and the Istar felt the saber-sharp slice of his mind. The sensation was alarming.

"I have watched you," Pallando told him. "I am a sensible person. I see no glory in defending a land with all my arts when at the end it will fall and cost me greatly. You do not know how to loose in battle. I know not what drives you, but you will not be halted. Chey Sart will not surrender without a fight, but I can advise you in how to win, after all, I know that country well."

"A traitor, then." Vanimórë raised a black brow in contempt. "But I am not one who will throw away a tool simply because I mislike its design. So come, let us talk."

~~~

_ It is simple, Pallando, _ he thought to himself. _ I intend to leave enough memories in the minds of the people that not all will be forgot. There may only be legends, but there will be something, whispered across the Ages as the world grows old. From the south to the coldest north, from sea to sea, there will be myths. With my Empire stable, the High Kingdom will flourish and there in the north the deepest truths will remain, covered by earth, grown by grass, but never entirely forgotten. I will make certain they are not. I will seed the memories across the world. _

~~~

His chambers were dark. Here and there the setting moon caught glints of light from embroidered gold thread, the curve of a goblet, a circlet or armband set with gems.

Maglor let the harp slide from his shoulder, placed it in its leather casing and offed his clothes. He unloosed the braids of his hair, and shook it out.

There was no warning as a dark cloth came down over his eyes. He slammed back with one elbow. It hit a stomach solid as a steel breastplate. There was a soft laugh, the odor of sandalwood, and the blindfold was drawn securely at the back of his head.

''Just _feel_. It is an interesting sensation to be without sight, no?''

''No,'' Maglor hissed, even as his skin reacted to Vanimórë's voice as to the brush of a wolf's pelt in the dark.

''But yes.'' Long hair slid against his thighs, and breath dusted his throat, his chest, whispered over his nipples, and ever down to his groin. Arousal exploded through him, his cock hardened. His head tipped back, his hands slipped into water-soft hair. He cursed the need which flamed through him, to feel those lips close over him and....

The slap across his buttocks startled him. It was no love tap and burned as another was laid upon it, but the pain was allied to sudden engulfing pleasure, the tantalizing flick of a tongue. There came a throaty laugh, a waft of perfumed air, then he overbalanced as Vanimórë sent him to the bed-covers, face down.

A faint swish sounded and he bit back a cry as a crop or cane struck his backside. He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees.

''Thou doth know pain has to be endured and mastered, transmuted into something else, Maglor.''

The crop swished down again and again. Maglor tensed against it, his back teeth locked, refusing to cry out. Then he started violently as liquid ran over the welts. He smelled wine; it bubbled as it touched him, ran down the cleft of his buttocks. A shudder weltered through him as lips drank it, and hands prised him buttocks apart. Vanimórë's tongue flicked around the tight opening. Maglor heard himself groan, felt his heart bolt like a wild horse.

There was a firm nudge as Vanimórë poised himself, then thrust deep, and the pain, the sunburst, the lingering sting of the crop became one inferno. Maglor shed all control. There was heat and light and a storm that spun him into a place where only sensation existed.

''Maglor, Maglor,'' murmured that exotic voice as he lay on his stomach, muscles quivering. ''And still thou dost hate — such a _spice_ that adds, no?" The blindfold was withdrawn, and he blinked. "Soon it will be thy turn. How often hast thou longed to make Sauron pay and pay again for thy torment? He is not here. But I am.''

_He reads my mind._ Through the bliss and the flame had indeed come the need to be the one who dominated, to feel Vanimórë clenched about him, responding to his mastery. _ To hurt him..._ He flinched, as if denying he could cold-bloodedly inflict pain, and knowing he could. White teeth glinted as Vanimórë rose in a swirl of hair.

''Not _cold _ bloodedly, I assure thee.''

''And what of Elgalad?''

Vanimórë looked over his shoulder.  
''I am trying not to use him up." His voice, his eyes had changed. "Trying. And failing.''

He reached for his clothes, then casually tossed the crop onto the tumbled bed.  
''Keep it," he said. "Thou wilt find a use for it.'' ~

~~~


	3. The Darkest Rites

  
**New Ciuviénen.**

~ It was black marble veined in white, and unlike the graceful Noldorin architecture where light and unity soared upwards, the tomb was stark, brutal. It stood in the garden before the palace, ugly and inimical. When Fëanor first set eyes on it he had stopped as if slamming into a wall. Something within him had reared up in loathing, and he had backed away slowly, as if any sudden movement might cause it to awaken from slumber. Then he had flung around and ran blindly into the arms of Fingolfin, who had picked him up and carried him away.

Even the spring morning could bring no sense of warmth to the thing, but now, unwilling to permit fear to influence him, Fëanor padded silently closer.

_One of our enemies is buried there,_ Fingolfin had said, smoothing his hair. _Thou wilt understand when thou art older. _

His mind shied from it, this black spot in the beauty of his home. It defiled the palace, the realm. But he would not run from it, not again.

He swallowed convulsively. He had not meant to come here, this bright dawn, but he had slept in the palace because Fingolfin had said they would ride together in the morning. Fëanor enjoyed being in the prince-regent's company, there was a thrill to it. Fingolfin was legendary. The only greater Elf had been his half brother, the Spirit of Fire. Young Fëanor was honored to be named after him.

The tomb crouched like a beast in the sunlight as if waiting for him. Fëanor glared at it, then his eyes widened as he saw that around the base a creeping decay had scorched the grass. In the dust lay a dead bird, a sad brown mound of feathers. He picked it up. It was a nightingale. Anger spiked through him, a high wind of rage as he carried the little corpse to a cleaner place and laid it down. Splinters of light, images, caught him in mid-movement and froze him.

_ A monstrous form, cruel eyed, radiating power and hate loomed over a tall warrior bearing a sword of white fire. His eyes were burning gems. His voice was resonant, bell-clear:  
''I have..._long_ desired this, Jail Crow.''_

_The voice that answered was rusted iron, scored by heat._

_''I will hear thy screams, Fëanáro... _

"_No! _" The word was torn from his soul. He felt it resonate on the air, and with a crack like lightning, the tomb was riven from top to base. 

Shocked out of his fear, Fëanor stared. Voices were calling, some-one was saying his name. A hand touched his shoulder, then Fingolfin knelt before him, star-blue eyes wide.

''Fëanor.''

''I...''

''Look at me! Art thou all right? ''

He nodded, hurled himself into the waiting arms.  
''What did I do?'' he choked. ''What did I do?''

~~~

''Thou art special, Fëanor, thou hast gifts which the Eldar do not have.''

The boy held his hands around a steaming tisane.

"I broke it," he whispered. "I _hate_ that thing. It is all _wrong!_"

''Yes, it is," Fingolfin agreed. "He was a terrible enemy, and when thou art grown thou wilt understand why the tomb is there, in the place where he fell."

"It is killing the grass. It killed a bird," Fëanor stated. "I saw him, I heard him, he and...'' his slim brows crooked. ''Fëanor..."

''What didst thou see?'' Fingolfin went down on one knee before him, smoothed his hair in a gentling motion.

''The enemy was monstrous and he...Fëanor, he shone like a fire. He was holding a blade like white lighting.''

''A sword of _laen._ My half-brother invented it for use in weapons and armor.'' Fingolfin's eyes were full of memories as he looked at the boy, who gazed back, unblinking.

''Where do these gifts come from?'' There was an infinitesimal pause. ''Not from my mother. From my father, then?'' He put down the cup and rose. ''Glorfindel?" He shook his head, following his own thread of thought. "No, why would he have kept away from me, if I was his son? The other one then.''

Fingolfin silently cursed. This was the problem: Fëanor had always been more intelligent than any-one else. Passion had destroyed him in his first life, not stupidity.

''I can see it in thy mind," the boy cried. "Vanimórë is my father.'' He ran delicate hands into his hair, clenched them.

''Fëanor, peace. There are some things thou canst not know yet.'' Fingolfin gently opened the slender fingers, held them.

''When? I was angry and cracked the tomb. What if I...?'' His eyes grew wide. He swallowed. ''What if I grew angry with some-one and...?''

''Cease,'' Fingolfin commanded, laying his hands on the slim shoulders. ''Glorfindel will teach thee to control this power. We knew it would come. Glorfindel will be thy mentor; he will teach thee in how to control these gifts.'' He felt the tension and confusion in the child. Love filled his heart, and he leaned to kiss the small troubled brow. ''Thou wilt understand in time.''

"Why does my father not wish to see me?" Fëanor's eyes searched the splendid face above his. "Does he not want to see his own son?"

"It is not that. His world is one of war and violence. He knows that New Ciuviénen is safe and that we love thee." Fingolfin smiled. "Come. I will take thee to Glorfindel."

''I would always want to know _my_ sons!'' The words were fierce. ''I would love them. ''

"I know," Fingolfin murmured. "I know."

~~~

**Osgiliath.**

''You have seen this?''

The King turned from the balcony, and the view south down the gleam and roll of Anduin. Osgiliath was stirring, the first bell ringing across the white streets. The sun, mounting the Ephel Duath in the east, filled the chamber with light.

''Yes, Elessar, I have seen it."

Elessar rose, crossed to his guest, grey eyes met violet.

''I hoped to bring back the glory that was lost, for my son to continue it, and you say it will be destroyed?''  
Threads of grey now wove through the King's hair; lines fanned from his eyes, but his skin was still firm and his carriage regal. The green stones in the ring of Barahir caught the sun in an emerald flash.

''It is the nature of Arda. Kingdoms rise and fall. But something must be remembered. '

Elessar frowned at the passion in Vanimórë's voice.

''I wish there to be something left, Elessar, tales, ruins, myths."

''In less than four hundred years then, this will be gone," the King's voice was flat.

Vanimórë nodded. ''Yes, but I will try to ensure something remains.''

''You are a Power. Can you not do anything, you and Glorfindel?''

''I will do what I can. We both will. It will not be enough,'' Vanimórë said. ''Dost thou not see now why I take land after land, nation after nation?'' His eyes burned, ''So that others may leave a legacy.''

''That is the reason?'' Aragorn's eyes narrowed. ''That is _all_ the reason that you build an Empire? So that my kingdom may prosper in peace?''

''I am good at what I do.'' A white smile flashed in sudden, unexpected insouciance. ''Who else holds the legends of the Elder Days but Elves and the Men of Númenor? Other lands and peoples have their own legends, and they will find a way to remember them. But we will be forgotten.''

The king drew his hands over his face.  
''And so, you ask me to join with you to conquer Khand, so that you may take Chey Sart, all for this?''

''The Variags have never forgotten the Pelennor. I have had careful approaches asking if I would consider looking the other way while Khand attacked Gondor.''

Aragorn's eyes narrowed. ''We have heard such rumors, which is why I agreed to this meeting.''

Vanimórë leaned back against the wall. ''Khand holds the key to Chey Sart and to the east. It lies on the richest trade route in all Middle-earth, to Cathai and her silks and civilization, and the Kingdoms of the Cloud Forests in the south. Khand grows ever more rich and powerful. The only viable passes into Chey Sart lie in eastern Khand. I have it on the best of authority that Chey Sart and the Variags are in constant communication. I need to move now, before they ally. Even Sauron was loathe to lose a Variag army taking Chey Sart, and so he encouraged the peace between them — until after he conquered Gondor. Thou wilt find thyself facing the combined forces of Khand and Chey Sart if we do not strike now.'' Black brows rose. "I personally have nothing against the Variags or the Cheyans, nor any of those thou wouldst call savages. I have lived among the people and I understand them. The Imperium will try to give its subjects a time of peace and prosperity also. Were it not for the future, I am not certain I would aid thee. It is not thy bloodline or royalty or the color of thy skin that is important, Elessar, only the memories that it holds. And thou couldst have greatly facilitated a lasting peace hadst thou married a woman of Khand or the Harad."

"I was betrothed to Arwen. And Gondor would never have accepted such a marriage." Aragorn's jaw set. 

"A pity." Vanimórë moved to his side. "Well?"

Elessar nodded stiffly. "We will ride with you."

~~~

**Pashaar - The Imperium. **

''There are some disturbing rumors which may interest you, Sire.'' Pallando folded his hands inside the wide sleeves of his robe, and waited. Vanimórë leaned back in his chair.  
''I know that much occupies you, and you search for your father everywhere. I also know the rites which people enacted to propitiate him. It appears they believe you desire the same rites.''

Vanimórë's brows snapped together. ''What?''

''A group of traders arrived from Ekinah, Sire, in the west.'' Pallando moved to a huge map hung upon the wall and tapped his finger on the city. ''Dealers in silver. They speak in an under-voice of people going missing in their city, children, youths, sometimes women. It is said that they are being taken away at night.'' A hard smile. ''By you.''

Vanimórë came to his feet, the chair crashing back against the marble.

''By me.'' His voice was flat.

''The tales that you travel like a spirit on the winds of night.'' Pallando spread his hands deprecatingly. ''Who knows what you do, sire? The ruler of Ekinah is a worried man, but those who vanish are the poor, and who would question what you do?'' He shrugged.

''_I_ would.'' Reaching for his sword harness Vanimórë shrugged it on.

''You are going to Ekinah?'' Pallando inquired, but there was only the crack of air and the flicker of fire. He smiled.

Ekinah had fallen seven years ago after a long siege. It was a rich city, for the hills behind it were a source of silver, and it had strong defensive walls. But in the end it had yielded. Vanimórë had admired the lord's staunch defense and let Matuun live after the man swore fealty.

He watched the desert night come, the stars blaze out, and as he contemplated the vastness of what Eru had created a sense of awe and fatality came upon him.

_ I cannot prevent what will happen. Why is my power of so little use?_

The gates were closed for the night. Vanimórë climbed the walls like a cat, slipped into the streets.

The air was heavy with the scent of spice and dung, of close-packed humanity. He drew the hood of his cloak over his face, became another benighted beggar huddled against the wall. Somewhere a cat wailed, a man and woman chuckled lewdly from further away. Minds — so many minds, all glittering different emotional colors.

He searched for fear.

Not far away a dozing vagrant muttered, shifted in his sleep. These were poor streets, crowded behind the repaired walls in a maze of courts and alleys.

The moon rode the sky, peering cursorily down into the city before moving on. A deeper silence fell.

A thrill of fear, a cry like the shriek of some disturbed night-bird brought Vanimórë's head up. Silently he rose, followed the beacon of a terrified young mind, sprinted down an alley so narrow that even the noonday sun would scarce penetrate it. Beyond was a small court surrounded by old houses, shutters determinedly barred.

He thought of himself as a child, Ages past, and it was a child lost and bewildered who trotted out into the view of two men. One of them held a small, kicking form slung over his shoulder, the other man turned, seeing the faint pale sheen of another tiny face. A big hand reached out, grabbed Vanimórë's shoulder, another clamped stiflingly over his mouth. He was lifted up, and the men ran deeper into the switchbacks and alleys. Vanimórë did not struggle. He could see little, but he could smell the rising excitement in the two kidnappers. It reeked like sewage.

They halted. A door creaked open and the men descended a flight of stairs to another door. After a few more steps, Vanimórë was set down.

The room was large, lit by braziers but the burning incense could not mask the tang of blood, the musk of sex. 

Against one wall lay a great table. Blood gutters had been gouged in the wood allowing the liquid to run down into bowls.

About the room were couches and on naked men, sheened in sweat mounted young bodies. Some moaned, others were too shocked to make a sound, and lay like sacks. The light caught the drugged, glassy sheen of their eyes.

''White skin.'' A plump hand touched Vanimórë's upturned face. ''Such eyes...'' They glowed in the dimness. The man stepped back, mouth shaping a sound — and Vanimórë delivered a blow that stove in his ribs, and sent in across the room to smash against the wall.

Men scrambled, lust-drunk, to their feet, reaching for weapons. They died in a whirl of killing which was as swift as it was brutal; Vanimórë needed no weapon save his own body. The doors crashed open, admitting a knot of armed men. A dagger whined past Vanimórë. He snapped out a hand and caught the hilt, sending it whipping back to pierce the soft brain matter behind an eye. His fury burst outwards like the red-black aura of an alien sun. The room quaked with it, and men stumbled back. Only one, in black robes trimmed with red, crouched beside the alter. His screams were shrill, desperate.

''You promised Great One! You promised.''

A hand dragged him to his feet.  
''_Thou art dead!_'' The mans bowels loosened in terror, and their stench filled the room. Power seized his mind, clamping on it, sending thought and memories gouting outwards like pulp from a smashed fruit.

_You came to me. Promised me. Immortality. Master._ Master! 

Vanimórë saw _himself _ speaking to the man, ordering rape, blood, the sacrifice of innocents.

The priests eye-sockets filled with scarlet as the blood vessels burst, the brain destroyed. Vanimórë flung the body aside.

''Sauron,'' he spat through his teeth.

He felt the shame and pain scorching from the children, and inwardly flinched. So damaged, so young. What could he do for them, he who knew only war and violence? His call into Matuun's mind brought the man out if his sleep with a suddenness that landed him on the floor, then sent him staggering to his feet, shouting orders.

''No-one will touch thee now,'' Vanimórë vowed, helpless in his inability to comfort them. With a resounding crack, the makeshift alter fell, and he closed his eyes as he waited for the city ruler to come.

~~~

**New Cuiviénen **

Tindómion reined in as he watched the group of riders approach, hawks on their wrists, long hair tossed by the wind. Their leader was speaking to one beside him, and their mingled laughter rang out. Maglor's son watched jealously as Gil-galad reached out a hand to his companion. Heat coiled in his loins. The years had run by swift as a coursing hound. Tindómion knew that Gil-galad would return to Lindon, but was waiting for him, or rather for Fëanor to grow.

And there it rested. They were courteous and cool to one another and now, as the haughty, beautiful face turned toward him, he inclined his head in polite greeting.

''Whither away?'' Gil-galad called.

''To see Elgalad.''

Gil-galad drew rein and beckoned one of his handlers to take the hawk.  
''I will ride with thee.'' He cantered across and they fell in side by side.

''How is he?''

''Father thinks Vanimórë should visit more often, but conquering most of Arda...I suppose that does take up one's time.'' The words were dry.

"He offered us escort to Gondor"

''I know.''

"It is through desert. We need good guides, but it will be faster that the sea-route." Gil-galad paused. "It will not be long until Fëanor is grown.''

''Yes. And I heard what he did. I for one do not in the least blame him.''

''Fëanor and Fingolfin — and Vanimórë — did slay his body before he could gain more power. That requires some physical monument, though I do not blame him either. ''

''I need no monument to remember.'' Tindómion fell silent, trying to shift his thoughts from the image of Gil-galad smiling so intimately at his companion. It was not easy. He had always been Gil-galad's favorite — and more. He had been the one who controlled their relationship, and part of him had relished that. Now the boot was on the other leg. The memory of that interlude in Elgalad's lodge was enough for him to shift uncomfortably astride the powerful horse.

''Neither do I.''  
Gil-galad was not referring to the duel, and Tindómion knew it.

''I am sending Vórimóro north with half my people to begin building,'' Gil-galad continued. ''I have had messages from Elladan and Elrohir with an intriguing proposal. I would like to see Elgalad, so that he may ask Vanimórë to meet with me.''

"What have they said? Thou couldst ask Vanimórë thyself; he would hear thy thoughts."

''I prefer to speak face to face. There are Dwarves in the Ered Luin, and Elladan and Elrohir have spoken of making a fortress within the mountains, even underground, as Nargothrond and Menegroth.''

''Underground?'' Tindómion was startled. ''But why? Lindon is beautiful, why would we wish to build beneath the earth?''

''_We?_ How reassuring. And that is what I wonder, also. That is why I wish to speak to Vanimórë.''

''Once thou wouldst have trusted me with such a mission to Lindon.''

The cold words turned Gil-galad's head back.  
''I would,'' he said calmly. ''But I want thee here.''

''Thou dost _want_ me here?''

''Let us say I..._command_ thee to remain here.'' The black brows arched arrogantly. Unwillingly, Tindómion laughed.  
"I should have commanded thee when I was High King. This time I will. I understand thee, Istelion. Thou didst ever draw back and leave me hungry. Didst thou truly want to be _forced?_''

''When I watched thee in battle I could have had thee in the midst of the blood and horror.'' Tindómion's voice went deep. ''I was looking for one strong enough to ignore my...objections, even the Valars' Laws.''

'I am tired of this.'' The steeldust stallion turned in one controlled movement, and the riders knees touched. The star-blue eyes for which Gil-galad was named, shone with anger. 

''So am I.'' They glared at one another for a long moment, then with a curse Tindómion wheeled his mount away. Gil-galad reached out, seized the bronze oriflamme of hair, and jerked — hard. Tindómion fell back, and landed on the ground.

He pushed himself up, incensed, to meet the blow of a kiss, and bit down. Gil-galad swaore direly, reared back, striking him with a backhanded blow across the face, then rejoined the kiss with greater violence. Tasting the copper of blood in his mouth, Tindómion growled in his throat, his lips parted.

''Beautiful, misbegotten _Fëanorion_...''

Both came apart at the sudden thunder of hooves approaching, their eyes fixed on one another as if in challenge. Tindómion tore his gaze away and rose, seeing to his surprise that it was his mother. There were tears on her cheeks. Saddlebags were slung over the horse's withers.

''We must go to Elgalad,'' she cried.

''Why? Is he hurt?'' Tindómion demanded.

''No, not him! Vanimórë spoke into my mind.'' Her brows were drawn hard as if his words had physically hurt her. ''He found children in one of the cities of the Empire, abused and...He said his _father _ had been appearing in the minds of people as himself, as Vanimórë, telling them he _required_ rape and death; blood rites such as were practiced in Númenor. He killed the men, but he did not know what to do with the children. He used his power to bring them here, to Elgalad's home. I have some medicaments...but...''

The two men did not question that Mortals had been brought to this hidden place; Glorfindel would have allowed them in.

''They are so young,'' Fanari said. ''And he wants them somewhere safe.''

Tindómion leaped astride his horse.  
''Who else knows, mother? ''

''Glorfindel and I. Fingolfin. I have asked some of my ladies to come after me.'' She started forward as she spoke. Tindómion and Gil-galad followed.

The bed-chambers of Elgalad's house were now occupied by pathetically small figures, tucked under soft wool. They lay so still they seemed dead but Vanimórë, who was bathing one gently, looked up and said, ''They sleep.''

Glorfindel had come and was tending to another child. Both he and Vanimórë exuded the power of their anger like heat. Elgalad tore fresh athelas into steaming water, dipped and wrung out cloths, his face stony, his eyes hard as quartz. He drew back a blanket to reveal the form of a girl.

''I will tend to her, Elgalad.'' Fanari touched his shoulder. ''Bring more blankets. They are cold.''

''I will get braziers.'' Tindómion went out.

''Vanimórë?'' Gil-galad said.

''I saw it all in the mind of that bloody _priest_ before I killed him," Vanimórë spat. "_I_ was in his dreams, demanding blood and rape.'' He tossed a bloodstained cloth into a basket. ''How ironic, no? I, used by Morgoth and Sauron, demand the rape and death of children. And unless I find him, that is all I will be remembered as. A Dark God. A Blood God.''  
He set his hands against the wall and bowed his head. Hair-thin cracks fanned from under his spread fingers, and Elgalad approached him, touched his back. For a moment Vanimórë did not respond, each muscle locked rigid, and then abruptly he turned and drew Elgalad into his arms.

Fanari straightened from her examination of the girl.  
''They are damaged. Torn and bleeding, but they are young...''

Vanimórë raised his head. ''Some are hurt inside, there may be infections. But I wanted to try... '' _and save them._

''We will h-heal them," Elgalad promised, and Glorfindel said, looking up, "Their _bodies_ will heal, Vanimórë."

''Bodies. There were bodies there...small children.'' Something flared in the violet eyes: pain, memories. Elgalad knew then what formed the strange bond between his lord and Maglor: suffering.

Gil-galad unstoppered a jar, smelling the cool, green scent of freshly gathered cresses, nard, woundwort, and applied it gently to a youth's torn opening before pulling the sheet back over him. Tindómion pushed the door open with his shoulder, bearing two braziers.

''How long will they sleep?'' Gil-galad asked. ''It is what they need to heal, yet they must also eat and drink.''

"They must have a little poppy for the pain," Vanimórë said. "I will instruct Elgalad on the correct doses, for they are young, the oldest is barely past puberty. The smaller ones were killed...children's blood is supposed to be potent." He took Elgalad's face in his hands. "They will need kindness, if they live."

Elgalad nodded. ''They w-will be cared for.''

"I know." Vanimórë kissed him with a fierce, desperate hunger as if drinking from something sweet and cleansing. "I thank thee. I need thee for this task."

_And I need_ thee, _Maglor, for something quite different._ ~

~~~


	4. Violent Catharsis

 

**New Cuiviénen **

  
  
~ ''Will they heal?''  
Fingolfin watched Vanimórë; rage poured from him like water boiling from an untended cauldron.

"I do not know." Then: "I did not know where else to take them, but I will find a safe place. I will speak with Khanad in Tanith, or Elessar. "

"Sauron would have thee another Morgoth Bauglir." Fingolfin searched the impassive face closely.

"I am not."

"I know it."

Vanimórë turned to look out of the long window at the lawns, the trees on which blossom was bursting, lush and thick as churned cream.

"Wilt thou see my brother, whilst thou art here?" Fingolfin asked after a long moment. "He knows who fathered him. He guessed, I thought it would not be long. He was always too intelligent."

"Not yet." Vanimórë looked over his shoulder. "It is not the time. And understand this: I do not see him as a son. I was used, even as Fanari was, only to provide the means for him to be reborn. His powers will be needed."

''We love him,'' Fingolfin smiled. "It is strange — and strangely wonderful — to see him young."

"And he loves thee." A smile gleamed, and the sex in it reminded Fingolfin sharply of his half-brother. "I must go, here are things I must attend to. Oh," the smile deepened. "I _enjoyed_ seeing thy stoke against Morgoth. And so did Fëanor." He saluted and left the room.

~~~

There was a quiver in his hands as he locked the door, drew out the key and placed it upon a table.

_I need to see thee. _ The words had been so imperative, so laden with undischarged rage that they had compelled Maglor to his rooms. He had questions, too. Was it possible that Vanimórë played some deep game, some bluff wherein he would blame the influence of Sauron for deeds which he in fact perpetrated himself? Elgalad was right; something in Vanimórë had changed.

''Dost thou think so?'' asked the voice behind him, and Maglor whirled. Vanimórë leaned against the wall, one foot up and resting on the sleek marble as if he were idly waiting for a friend. The wildness in his eyes, the disheveled hair, told another tale.

''I do not know,'' Maglor admitted. ''Nothing is beyond thee.''

''Some things are. I was a child once, believe it or not.'' Vanimórë pushed himself from the wall and his hands went to his tunic. He drew it over his head, unbuckled the belt from his breeches, and pulled off his boots.

''I do not want thee.''

An eyebrow quirked. ''Do not worry.'' Instinctively, Maglor caught the crop Vanimórë tossed at him, who then drew his hair over one shoulder and turned, laying his hands against the wall.

''Use it.''

Maglor recoiled.

''No.''

''Use it. What, dost thou not hate me enough?''

''That is not in question, but this is foolish.''

"_Use it!_ Remember how it was in Barad-dûr. Am I not _his_ son? I saw him come from thee, bloodied, sated. And then _I_ came to thee." Vanimórë's words ripped. "I tended thee and healed thee. I made thee live. How many times did I take thee and have thee begging for more. How many times didst thou wait for me to come to thee?"

The crop was sharp as a whip. It cut off the taunting words, laid a red welt across Vanimórë's flesh. His body snapped rigid. The breath hissed from his lungs.

''So hungry, so shameless, after all that he had done to thee. Thou couldst not help it, could not help wanting what I gave.''

''I wanted to die.''

But at the end, in that dark room, _all_ he had wanted was for Vanimórë, a stranger then, to come to him and expunge Maglor's torment with terrifying pleasure.

White rage billowed up. All he could see was his savior, his seducer: Sauron's son, who had stalked his mind every moment since his release from Mordor.

His vision cleared. A ragged sound came from him. He flung the crop aside, reached around Vanimórë's waist. His hand slid down. Beads of perspiration clung to striped flesh and Maglor tasted salt, blood. His mouth followed the welts as if he were kissing away pain, and his fingers curled around the flaccid shaft, feeling it harden.  
Their breathing deepened as he stroked. He drew away and his clothes fell to the floor. He kicking aside his boots. Laying his hands on the wide shoulders he pushed, and Vanimórë sank down onto his hands and knees.

Maglor picked up a wine-jug from its bowl of snow, poured a thin stream over the whip marks. He saw the hard muscles contract at the sudden chill, heard the heaving pants of pain.  
''Look at me, damn thee. _Look at me!_'' His desire for vengeance battled with the revulsion of seeing Vanimórë humbled. It seemed as wrong as if this were Fëanor, save that his father had never been humbled or misused. Vanimórë had, and many times.

Vanimórë's head rose; the feathery lifted up. His face was limned with the dew of pain-sweat. His eyes were lack. He gripped Maglor's hips, and took all his length in his mouth. He sucked, licked, then slowly drew back. 

"Take away the pain, Maglor," he whispered.

Maglor cursed and drove himself to the root in the tight heat. The groan forced from Vanimórë held both pain and lust. Maglor plunged more savagely, feeling the convulsive clenching around his cock. The sensation blasted him into fire. He needed to take, possess, feel _this_, feel _him._ There was no tenderness, only the need to dominate one who had dominated his own soul for so long.

The pain had blazed Vanimórë's mind white, lashing across his nerve endings, sending them into anguished protest. He welcomed it to forget the sight of abused children, used by men whose minds were charnel-sick. It had flung him back to the horror and madness of feeling Uruks and wargs thrusting into him. The agony of the beating incinerated the memories, but did not arouse him. And then Maglor had kissed him, touched him, and he had felt contrition inextricably melded with fury — and desire.

He had seduced Maglor in Barad-dûr using every skill he owned. He had savoured each moment, would have kept Maglor longer if he could, until the hate and shame became an admitted need.  
There would always be desire between them, forged in a place of darkness. Vanimórë arched down like a bow; each brutal thrust brushed the gland within him, and his ecstasy climbed and climbed like a cresting wave.

"_Yes,_" he groaned, pushing back. "My beautiful, bloody Fëanorion...Yes."

At the moment he thought he would go mad, hanging on the edge of release, they both fell, plunging through fire, through light.

The intensity left him shaking. The burn of the crop blended with the afterglow of orgasm. Maglor had given him exactly what he needed. He rose, swallowing pain, reached for his clothes.

''Wait.'' At Maglor's word he paused, felt the touch of cool unguent on his wounds. Bandages were wound around his torso.

''I thank thee,'' he murmured, turning his head so that his lips brushed Maglor's mouth, who turned away. His profile was so beautiful that Vanimórë smiled in utmost appreciation. He sensed the confusion, the wild swirl of thoughts, the flickering fire deep within.

''Son of flame...''

The silver eyes snapped to his.  
''Is this what we become when our souls are twisted beyond healing?''

Vanimórë's laugh was soft in his throat. ''No, my beauty. It is what we become when we know what will give us...peace.'' ~

~~~


	5. A Gathering of Princes

  


**The Empire.**

 

  
  
~ A hot wind whipped the man's cloak about him, scattered dust over his boots. His head was clasped by a face-frame of black steel mesh, each join dotted with chips of ruby. The device covered chin, cheeks, forehead and came down between his brows, forming a nasal guard. A gold circlet was riveted about his brow, plain save for one diamond in the center. The strange head-piece gave the man an inhuman appearance, and his voice indeed lacked any vestige of humanity as he said, ''Kill them.''

Screams raked the air as soldiers dragged the prisoners down onto the long spears, the raised those spears. The crowds gathered outside Amala shuffled back, some fled as the men shrieked, bestial sounds of agony.

''The penalty for the blood rites is death.''

Behind Vanimórë the Imperial Guard watched, faces as impassive as their Emperor's, though he felt their horror. He turned and mounted his stallion, riding to the first of the impaled men, whom had once been the lord of this city.

''From the lowest, to the highest,'' he said and wheeled his horse. His guard followed as he entered the gates.

~~~

''It is very clever,'' Pallando said later that day. ''You punish the blood-rites with death, yet _you_ appear in dreams, and tell them not to heed your orders, that it pleases you in truth and they they will not be punished. Confusing for them, do you not think?''

"My father is not stupid," Vanimórë said, then: "We leave in two days. The Variags believe we will join them."

Pallando nodded agreement. ''The Cheyan's believe it also.''

Vanimórë turned. Within the face-frame, his purple eyes glittered preternaturally. ''I will be away this night, I will return in the dawn.''

''To New Cuiviénen?'' Pallando hesitated. ''I would like to see the Elf haven.''

''No doubt.'' Vanimórë's reply was uncompromising. He strode into the adjoining chamber and vanished.

~~~

The Variags and the Cheyan's did indeed believe that they would triumph against Gondor in the coming battle. Both were great realms, and had called in mercenary fighters from the east to swell their forces. The Empire would merely observe, they were told. But the Easterners wanted more and, encouraged by Vanimórë's oddly gentle response to their overtures, they became bold.

''He may be a God, or more likely a damned White Fiend, but he has spent his strength in conquering the Harad, that is why he never took Gondor. Pallando has vouchsafed this.''

Sathari's father had died and his eldest son Kethaan had taken the throne. He was thirty years old, less wary than his experienced sire would have been. He had received messages from his sister which bore out Pallando's words.

''His army is vast nevertheless,'' Saithal the Variag cautioned. ''And he brings them north.''

''Prudence. His legions are tired, glutted with too much war. They are Men after all, even if their leader is not.''

~~~

The army of Gondor came through Harondor and turned east, but Khand and Chey Sart would not yet move from the border where a chain of defensive castles had long been strung from north to south. Before them the land rolled into desert, and the water was insufficient to supply an army, but behind the Haradhan border wells had been sunk to supply the legions who used the great roads.

Elessar would not take his own forces over the parched desert; he was too canny a warrior, and he could not remain indefinitely where he had camped.

~~~

''This God-Emperor knows that he cannot take Khand or Chey Sart,'' Kethaan insisted. Pallando had proved an admirable intelligencer and the young Khagan believed he knew more about the Imperium than any man. Unfortunately, he did not know that Vanimórë would lie.  
A messenger went secretly to Kethaan and Saithal with a pledge from the Emperor: if they moved out, the Imperial legions would attack the High Kingdom's flank. Since the emissary was Pallando, the Easterling armies marched confidently from Khand.

~~~

The dust swirled up under their horses hooves, but those in the lead could clearly see the forces of the High Kingdom, the banners above their commanders, the glitter of armor. Off to the south waited the legions of the Empire. They were lead by the Steelguard, stern-faced men beneath the Imperium's black and purple banner.

_ ''Can we trust him?'' _ Elessar had asked his son.

_ "I believe so," _ Eldarion had answered. _ "For all that he is, he was chosen by Eru and he is loved by Elgalad. There must be something in that, do you not think?" _

~~~

As the Imperial cavalry gained momentum, the Variags and Cheyans exulted. It seemed certain that the Steelguard would smash into the Men of the West, but Eldarion, who was commanding the flank, did not falter. And then, in one unified movement of perfect control, the Imperial legions wheeled and galloped directly towards the Easterners.

The armies met with a clash that shook the earth and vanished under a pall of sand. Saithal of Khand, fighting for his life, saw a great war-horse come alongside him. His mount screamed as a steel-shod hoof opened its shoulder to the bone.

''Traitor,'' he howled, bringing up his sword.

''Yes.'' White teeth gleamed within the face-frame. Saithan's arm was taken off below the elbow and second stroke decapitated him.

~~~

The greater weight of the northern bred horses punched through the lighter Variag and Cheyan beasts. They were battle-trained; launching themselves into the air they would lash back with their hind legs to crush the ribcage of another horse or its rider. Vanimórë had traded for mares from Dol Amroth and Gondor; heavy beasts used for draft or plow. Crossing them with the swifter desert horses had produced a tall, strong breed which could carry an armed man daylong. Now they tramped blood, forcing the Easterners back towards their border where reinforcements waited. They saw with relief the flash and glitter of thousands more warriors.

~~~

They had come south, passing into the easternmost provinces of the Empire, and around them the air seemed to shimmer, as if the dust was powdered diamond. They rode horses pale as moonlight and their eyes, under their helms, were gems . Pennons of flame-red, blue, silver, emerald and gold streamed behind them, and their pace across the arid land was as smooth as the roll of a great wave into the shore.

The demoralized Easterners, finding themselves confronted by a glittering host out of legend balked. The brave ones formed up and charged, to meet blades which may have been legendary but were as real as the wounds they inflicted. The High Kingdom and the Empire fell on them from behind, forcing them back. Panic grew in those who watched from the walls of Ammu, and the Variag and Cheyan generals came to blows. Nadai of Chey Sart judged it wise to draw back, to make all speed toward his own land. Makal of Khand called him craven. Upon this confusion broke the united front of the Noldor, the Western Men and the Imperium.

~~~

For a long time the watchers on the city walls could see little, only hear the roar of battle. Then, from the dust-cloud, a black warhorse galloped forward. Its rider dropped something which fell heavily to the ground.

''Here is thy ruler. Who will come forth and meet me? I will meet any challenger in single combat. _ Who will step forth?_'' The threat, the edge of fury in the words sang into the ground like a low blast of thunder.

Silence fell over the city, then some-one hastily lowered the pennons which fluttered over the walls in the universal signal of unconditional surrender.

Vanimórë returned to the lines, flashed a blazing smile.  
''There. That was not so difficult, was it?''

~~~

Campfires sprang up that night.  
While some were sent to track those who had fled, the victors took rest. Tents had been erected, surrounded by a ring of guards. 

''He goes into battle as if he cannot conceive of losing,'' Elessar commented to his son that night. The men had watched the Elves arrive, and stared with equal curiosity at the black-armored God-Emperor.  
''His will pulls his men with him like a rip-tide. That is why he does not loose. That and,'' Elessar sipped the hot wine. ''He fights like a war-god.''

"We have to be grateful he did not, in fact, attack us this morning," his son said. "He could have."

''You had no doubt at all?''

''None. Perhaps I should have. But no.''

~~

**Annúminas **

The shining man had been there when Ellai woke screaming, and his voice soothed as did the balms with which he anointed the boy's wounds.

When Vanimórë had spoken to Elessar and all was arranged, he found that the children would not go anywhere without Elgalad. They were afraid of the Dark God and shrank from him.

''I w-will go, my lord,'' Elgalad said. _For a while at least,_ he added. _Until they are settled._

Thus he had not gone to war, but he knew when it broke. He sensed Vanimórë's mind, could almost hear the clangor and clash of conflict. As he watched the children in the high walled house at Annúminas, his head turned unerringly south-east.

One of the women came out with a tray of fresh milk and honey cakes. A plump, reassuring figure with an ample lap and dimpled cheeks, she was liked by the children, who swarmed toward her as she placed the tray down. She had a rich giggle which bubbled up at seeing them enjoying themselves, and her motherly attitude extended even to Elgalad, once she had overcome her shyness at seeing an Elf. For him she had brought mulled wine.

''Though how you manage it I do not know, you Elves,'' she scolded. ''Wine in the morning. If you were a man they would call you a sot.'' This drew a soft laugh from Elgalad. ''Now, young ones, it is still cold, more chill than anything in the south I'll wager. There are fires lit inside, I do not want you out once the sun goes.''

''I will see they are not cold, Mistress Appledore,'' Elgalad assured her, and she sniffed, looking at the fine lawn of his shirt.

''As you do not seem to get cold, sir, how will you tell unless they go blue?'' She laughed at her own drollery, then sobered abruptly. ''The King has been most generous. There are warm cloaks in their chambers. I will bring them out.'' She bustled away and Elgalad turned to Ellai, who had been standing a little way from the younger children.  
At fourteen, he was a young man in his own land, and the oldest of those found in Ekinah. The priest had been his own father. Perhaps those scars would never heal, Elgalad thought. He had seen the blasted horror in Ellai's eyes when he woke from deep sleep, heard his screams in the night. He was tall, with gold skin and fine features, a cap of curling hair that tended to tumble into the wide, dark eyes, and he spoke very little.

''Ellai?'' Elgalad crossed to him and held out his cup of steaming wine, rich with honey, ground cinnamon and ginger. A little would not hurt the boy and the gesture conferred a sense of maturity upon him. He accepted the drink and sipped.  
Elgalad walked over to a bench under an old pear tree. The buds were just beginning to crack free of their winter rind, and the ground under the tree was white with late snowdrops. Winter had been hard that year and only recently had warmer winds from the south taken the chill from the air.

Elgalad thought of Vanimórë, once as young as this boy. He wished, as he had wished many times before, that by some great movement of power he could tread the paths of time back through the Ages, to comfort Vanimórë, tell him he loved him, waited for him...

''Art thou c-cold?'' he asked, coming out of his thoughts. ''Mistress Appledore was right. It is always much cooler in these l-lands than the south.''

''No, sir.'' Ellai was lying, not wishing to appear weak. He was embarrassed whenever he cried aloud in his sleep, and Elgalad had given him his own bedroom, for which the youth was grateful. He was even more grateful when he woke to find Elgalad sitting close to him. He took another sip of the wine.  
''This is...very nice, warming.''

''It is th-the ginger,'' Elgalad smiled. ''Just do not drink too much; perhaps t-tonight, before thou dost sleep? It will help thee. ''

The youth said nothing. Elgalad continued, his voice soft: ''There is some-one I love very m-much, who was hurt for a long time by h-his...father. He refused to l-let those actions rule h-his life.''  
He saw Ellai go rigid, staring into the depths of the cup, and laid a hand on the braced back.  
''He understands hate and shame, Ellai, and how it is to be helpless. He brought thee to me.''

''No.'' The youth came to his feet, wine sloshing from the cup. ''He is the Dark God! My father _served_ him.''

''No. It is Sauron, he who was th-the Dark Lord, who enters peoples minds pretending to be Vanimórë. He would never do such things. He was like th-thee, Ellai.''

Ellai's hand shook so hard that the wine spilled. He dropped the cup and cast himself into Elgalad's arms.  
''Can any-one stop the dreams?'' he asked through shattered breaths. ''Please?''

_I need to see thee, my love, when thou canst come. I need thee to speak to the children_ Elgalad called into the aether and added: _ And I would like to see thee, too._

~~~

**The Imperium.**

Vórimóro leaned close to Gil-galad, saying something at which both laughed softly, and that was the last Tindómion saw, or wished to see. He left the circle of firelight and strode to his own tent.  
He knew Vórimóro was leaving with Elessar and many of Gil-galad's folk, heading for Lindon. This did not mitigate his feelings of jealousy.

For Elves as well as Men the aftermath of battle fired the blood. Yet there had been injuries to see to, Tindómion himself had a strapped wrist and bruises. Now, with relaxation, wine and food, there was a heightened sensuality in the air familiar to him from every battle he had fought in.

He heard his fathers mellifluous voice rise in song as he threw back the flap of his tent and unhooked his cloak. It brought to his mind those terrible years when Sauron had swept through Eregion, destroying Ost-in-Edhil and ravaging Eriador, driving Gil galad back to the river Lhûn, where the High King swore he would hold. When there was respite, Tindómion would play to him...

~~~

_ Gil-galad had bathed and put off his armor, which hung on its stand ready to be donned speedily if the need arose. Tindómion entered after returning from the front, and Gil galad came to his feet._

_"None of the enemy are within ten leagues of us." A servant entered with wine and he poured. "Shall I play for thee?"_

_''Later, rest first. We need it.'' The blue-silver eyes were troubled. No word had come from Númenor. Gil-galad had hoped that the friendship between their peoples would have been great enough to ensure at least token aid._

_''Thou art weary.''_

_Gil-galad shrugged. "Of war. We all are."_

_Tindómion sat down. Gil-galad leaned back against him.  
"Thou dost feel like thy father," he murmured. "Even to his scent."_

_"I smell of bloody steel," Tindómion said wryly. "I need to bathe for a sennight." Then, gently: "Rest. Sleep."_

_After a while he felt Gil-galad's breathing soften and carefully shifted his position to lie back. He drew the high king with him, feeling the cool slip of hair hiss down over his neck. His own fatigue had fled, and he was thankful that Gil-galad slept, for his arousal was impossible to hide. He had to resist the urge to push his aching hardness against the high king's relaxed body. He set his teeth, and his lips touched the crown of black hair, resting there as he sought to master himself._

_''Rest well, beloved,'' he whispered, and let the tide of sleep carry him far away from battle._

_He woke with a warrior's alertness, seeing the faint grey of dawn. He had been dreaming of his youth, running along a beach, the taste of brine on his tongue, great gulls mewling overhead. He listened intently for any sound of alarum, but there was only the stir of the camp._

_''Thou art hard to sleep with, Istelion,'' Gil-galad's voice murmured._

_''Did I disturb thee?''_

_''Thy _ body _ is too hard.'' There was an ambiguous smile in the words. _

''Thou art no feather bed, either.'' He sat up. ''I will bring wine and food.'' Reaching out he touched Gil-galad's cheek. ''Thou art rested.''

''I am, I thank thee.''

Unable to resist, Tindómion leaned forward, kissed him quickly before leaving the tent. 

~~~

There had been other times when they drew close, and he remembered them all as he looked over his armor and drew his sword, the lamplight glinting from the bitter edge. He thought of the High King's pavilion in a raging blizzard, the years of the siege of Barad-dûr. After Gil-galad's death, he had been ravaged. It had been different then. The Noldor believed that a curse still lay on them, that Mandos had not doomed the Exiles for shedding the blood of their kin, but because certain of the princes and kings practiced unnatural love.

The Laws had been pronounced by those who did not understand what it was to be human, and were now broken forever. The Noldor were renewed, and need not hide their desires. They saw no wrong in taking bed-pleasures with willing partners. Perhaps Gil-galad would ease his hungers with Vórimóro this night. It would not be the first time.

_And why should not I find some-one to ease my burning? _ thought Tindómion, and growled in frustration. He sat down, testing the binding on his wrist, probing the bruise under it gently. It was his shield-arm and would serve. He drew a pillow under his head and lay back, the notes of his father's harp pulling him into sleep.

He dreamed of lips on his throat, his bones melting into hot honey. They reached his jawline, rested on his mouth. He tasted wine. His hands sank into a cool river of hair. The kiss ended abruptly. He blinked, murmuring a protest.

''Good morning, Istelion.'' Gil-galad sat back, one leg drawn up, pouring wine and proffering the cup. ''Thou didst leave early last night.'' His expression was calm, even aloof, and a banner of anger unfurled in Tindómion as he drank. 

''I wished to be alone.'' _How didst thou spend the night, and with whom?_

Gil-galad either heard the private speculation, or knew him well enough to divine his thoughts. The corners of his scrolled mouth turned up.  
''Then I hope thou didst find peace in solitude.''

''I did. How are the wounded?''

''All are resting, healing. Vanimórë speaks to the remnants of the Easterling armies this morning, and none can move while the injured are being tended. But this is an arid land. I will be glad to return to New Cuiviénen, and to Lindon, when we go north.''

Tindómion nodded as he poured water to lave his face and hands. He tested the bruised wrist again. It was tender, but the swelling was going down. He stood stiffly while Gil-galad re-bound it, watching the shadows of the long black lashes fan against the high cheeks.  
He wanted to knock him down and take him — or just knock him down. He knew what Gil-galad was doing to him and why. It remained to see who would resist the longest. ~

~~~


	6. Gifts Dark and beautiful

**New Cuiviénen**

 

  
  
~ ''I could have helped !'' Fëanor insisted.

Not all the Noldor had gone to war. The craftsmen, miners, stone-masons, those who tended the land and its crops remained, but New Cuiviénen yet seemed strangely deserted. The thoughts of those who remained followed the warriors. They all had memories of glittering armies riding out — and never returning.

''Fingolfin would never have permitted it,'' Fanari said. ''Thou art young. There will be time to learn arms and go to war, if such a thing is needful.''

''There will always be war, this is Arda Marred.'' At times the youth's eyes would look otherwhere, at something visible only to himself. ''And Fingolfin already teaches me arms.''

''I know he does, and he is proud of thee, but training and battle...not yet, my dear, thou wilt not be full grown for — ''

''I know mother, but I can already use my powers. Look!'' He turned in a whirl of black hair, and Fanari watched a tall plinth bearing an urn of flowers explode. Marble chips sprayed the air and there came a cry as some-one was hit by a piece of flying debris.

''Oh... _Hells,_ '' Fëanor swore ruefully. ''Forgive me Laecharn!''

Fanari blinked. ''Fëanor, please, do not destroy the gardens. Or anything else,'' she added hastily. ''Glorfindel has told thee to practice only with his supervision.''

''I am sorry, mother.'' His smile was charming, but unrepentant. She knew that he was aware of it his charm, used it mercilessly. ''But could I not have helped in the battle?''

She waited.

''No.'' he cast a glance up at her from under long lashes. ''It would be wrong, would it not? To use power against those with none, is forbidden.''

''Yes,'' Fanari said. ''Well, not forbidden, I think, but it would be dishonorable. Thou art wise to remember Glorfindel's words. He was a warrior before he was a Vala.''

''As was my father.'' He looked straight at her. ''I want to see him.''

''Not yet.'' She laid a hand on his shoulder, and suddenly he threw his arms about her.

''But I am his son! _Why_ does he not wish to see me?'' His voice came muffled. ''No-one tells me anything but that I will know _one day._''

''And thou wilt.''

''I would know _now_, mother.''

Fanari felt her mind seized. A hand clenched into her memories, images shattered like the broken pieces of a mirror. His coercion was as a blade of hot ice spearing through her head, and she cried out as it sent her to the floor.

''_Mother!_'' Fëanor dropped to his knees in horror. He felt the powers within him as if they were eructations from some vast magma chamber, and wrestled with them. _No, No, I never meant to hurt her! _

She lay on the rugs motionless, and he called desperation. Laecharn came running from the gardens with Sirvith, one of Fanari's maidens. They laid her on a settle and covered her. Laecharn ran for one of the healers.

''What happened to her?'' Sirvith demanded.

''I did not mean...'' Tears streaked down Fëanor's face. ''Forgive me, mother.''

''What didst thou do?'' Sirvith caught the boy by the shoulders, and instantly recoiled at the flame in his eyes. 

''I did not mean to hurt her. I wanted to see into her mind, to find out about my father.'' His voice hummed in the marble. ''No-one will tell me.''

Sirvith blanched, backing to stand beside Fanari. Fëanor clamped his lips together and knelt, clasping his mothers limp hand.

She woke later in her bedchamber, sparks of light burst in her skull before settling. Her eyes focused. The healer raised her to drink something sweet and herbal.

''Fëanor?'' she asked. 

There were tear stains on the fine-molded young face as he leaned over her. He buried his head in the covers. His shoulders shook, and she smoothed the glossy hair. ''It is all right, I promise.''

''I could have k-killed thee,'' he gasped, raising his head.

''But thou didst not,'' she told him. ''Leave us, Sirvith, please. I must speak to my son alone.''

~~~

There was a queer expression in his eyes as Fëanor assimilated what Fanari had told him. He turned away, walked to the window, watching the evening light slant over the lawns and glint upon the waters of Gaear Gwathluin.

''I _am_ Fëanor? Yet I am also _his_ son and thine.'' He spoke without turning, ''Is that why I am drawn to his — to _my _ son's? To Fingolfin? Why I love them?''

''Well, I hope thou wouldst love them anyway, for they love thee. They always have. But yes. Thy soul knows what they are to thee.''

''Why do I not remember? I know _my _ story.'' He picked at his braids impatiently. ''It is the tale of a stranger and a fell one. But I know this is true. I am he."

''It is true," Fanari agreed, watching him. ''But thy memories will return in time. I am sorry for revealing this now, but better than thou shouldst fret thyself —''

''And lose my temper, as I did.'' Fëanor finished. ''I just wanted to _know._''

''Thou hast always wanted to know.'' She carried his hand to her cheek. ''Do not blame thyself. It is difficult for us who love thee; thou art growing faster than we thought."

Fëanor saw the exhaustion in her face.   
''Thou art tired," Then, with real fear. "Thou wilt not die, as Miriel did?''

''No,'' Fanari said. ''Thou art not truly my son, though I carried thee, but I love thee too much to die.'' And she smiled. 

''Sleep,'' he commanded her. "I will sit with thee."

He waited as her eyes grew blank, and all through the cool spring night he watched her fearfully. At whiles he felt her pulse, held her hand. Dawn found him translucent with strain. Waking, Fanari drew him close. His arms locked around her in relief.

''Now it is time for _thee_ to sleep,'' she said.

He climbed into the bed without protest, molded himself against her, his head on her breast.

''Do not push thyself too hard or too fast, my dear.'' She kissed his head knowing as she said it that this was Fëanor she was speaking to, and when had he ever listened to any-one? Well, his half-brother perhaps. On that thought, she slept again. 

~~~

**Annúminas**

Elgalad closed the door to his bedchamber, lowered the latch into place. It was almost midnight, and the children were asleep. His room was close to theirs, and usually he kept the door open, but not this night. Only one tall candle was burning, and the window was open to the sweet air from Lake Nenuial.

Vanimórë turned from where he stood looking out. It was further advanced in time where he had come from and he was fully clothed. The intricate frame which clasped his features brought Elgalad to a halt, for it stripped all familiarity from him, made him alien. Tilting his head as if in understanding, Vanimórë raised his hands and drew the it off.

''Is this better?'' he asked. Elgalad smiled.  
"Somewhat," he said. Vanimórë walked to him, his hands settled on Elgalad's hips, and jerked him close.

The lovely body stretched forward on the sheets. So beautiful, Vanimórë thought, so passionate. _How far can he go, can we both go, until he breaks?_ He had no control over this, where it took them, he whom had prided himself on control. Elgalad forced him to a place he had taken others, but Vanimórë had always held part of himself back. He knew the ancient, savage rites of the wood-Elves, knew that some could reach the Anguish over and over. Elgalad, it seemed, was one of those, and he drew Vanimórë with him. 

''The battle?'' he asked. "Not that I have doubts." And that was another thing: during sex, in the aftermath, Elgalad's stammer could vanish. His very voice seemed different, deeper, more assured.

''Is won – by the High Kingdom, the Noldor and the Imperium.''

''Casualties?''

"Few among my men and Gondor's, none among the Noldor." He smiled a little. "I felt Eldarion's mind as I moved towards their right flank; there was no doubt in him that we would turn. His father, however, was waiting for it. I have thee to thank for Eldarion's trust. If thou dost trust me, I must be worthy of it.'' There was a wryness in the words which brought Elgalad's eyes to his. 

''The Cheyan's and Variags trusted me.'' Vanimórë sat up . ''I can lie – I can do anything, _will _ do anything to achieve my aims, but thou may trust me.''

''Where dost thou go?'' Elgalad propped himself on one arm.

''To wash, I have not put off my clothes for a day.''

''The furnaces will not be lit.'' 

''I can stand a little cold water.'' 

Elgalad stretched, and rose, moving languorously as he set wood on the fire, thrust the hot poker into two jugs of wine. Vanimórë, returning to the chamber, took a cup and sat down on the bed. Elgalad leaned against him.

''Has there been any more...incidents?''

''No, but there will be,'' Vanimórë answered the unfinished question. ''Sauron is appearing in the dreams of men who are apt to evil, telling them that my edicts on blood sacrifice are made to soothe the masses and that, in reality, it pleases me.'' He rested his cheek against Elgalad's hair, watched the flames. ''With so many people, so many minds, it is like a great ocean, some waves higher and more visible than others, but impossible for any-one save Eru to truly read. All I can do is be aware, listen for reports...and hope for luck. Elessar has agreed to take such victims into his land, so has Khanad and I am ordering houses for them built in Pashaar.''

" I wanted to talk to thee about Ellai...'' Elgalad said. ''Couldst thou not take the memories away?''

"Memories exist for a reason. They are part of what each person is, the good, the bad, the love, the hate, all of it. Wouldst thou wish that for thyself?''

Elgalad thought back to his years in Mirkwood, his tutelage under Malthador, the beatings, his loneliness, but also his friendship with Legolas, Thranduil, and others. The nights and days of the Earth Rites...  
''No,'' he said. 

''In any event, I cannot do it, and I am no healer. But let me see what may be done.''

~~~

Silently they entered the small chamber where Ellai slept. The fire had been banked for the night, heavy drapes were drawn over the window. Colorful woolen rugs were spread on the floor. It was a cosy room which should have been a haven of peace.

_He wakes every night, and I do not like to give him poppy all the time. A little mulled wine with honey usually sends him to sleep, but still he wakes, later._

_Sleep is healing for Men, or it should be, but it is also the time when the mind is most unguarded. _ Vanimórë replied. There was a faint line between his brows. He stepped forward, holding out his hand to Elgalad, who took it. Then moving so gently that Ellai would feel no intrusion, he eased into the boy's mind. He did not need to go deep; the wounds were not old, very close to the surface.

The foulness, the sink of degradation, of pain and horror sent black tendrils out from a core of darkness, and Vanimórë deliberately plunged into the memories of his own young life. Like Ellai, he had not been fully grown when Morgoth first took him.

_I know how it feels, child, expel the poisons into me. Let me take it._

~~~

_ ''He will see thee now.'' Sauron jerked his head to the door impatiently as his young son stood rigid. A pulse fluttered in the white throat as Vanimórë said flatly: ''I will not go.''_

_''Thou hast no choice, fool,'' Sauron said impatient, cold. ''Thou art his, and are favoured. He finds thee desirable, otherwise the orcs would long ago have sucked the marrow from thy bones.''_

_There was no expression on the hard young face. Sauron saw Vanimórë's silent oath: not to beg, not to cry out. Such naivety! Born and raised in Tol-in-Gaurhoth, brought to Angband, and his son still held to hope. He knew so little of the powers of Melkor._

_''And of course, thou didst take away his other dainty morsel. She would not have lasted long, I grant thee, but she would have pleased him for a while." He pressed on that inner wound and saw the flinch, heard the silent cry of grief. ''And death is no escape for thee, my son. He will track thy soul wherever it goes.'' He snapped his fingers. ''Come.''_

_Fear drove upward through Vanimórë, choking his throat as he forced himself to move, not to be dragged like a beast to slaughter. Why did it matter that he retained some dignity, when he knew what waited for him? He did not know, only that it would cling to the only thing he had left: Pride._

_And Sauron watched, intrigued, and not displeased. Silent tears of pain were forced from his son's eyes as Melkor ravaged him, but Vanimórë would not scream. It was just possible that he and his Lord had succeeded. Now he must be worked like the finest sword. _

~~~

_I know how it is, Ellai._

Vanimórë received the boys violation, his agony and betrayal, feeling it as keenly as he had felt his own .

_Thou art blameless. _

Feeling Elgalad close to him, he withdrew from Ellai and saw the concern in the water-grey eyes. Slender fingers touched his cheek and he smiled faintly as one thumb traced his mouth. The youth stirred and then burrowed deeper into the blankets in deep and restful sleep.

~~~

''What didst th-thou do?''

Back in Elgalad's room, Vanimórë shrugged from his clothes.

''I cannot make him forget, but I shared his pain, helped to lance some of the poison. Those who are abused always feel guilt that it was somehow their fault, that they deserved it, that they are not worth respect or love.''

''I wish I could have been with thee.'' The heavy hair hissed down over Vanimórë's body as Elgalad crawled up the bed towards him, erotic as any trained odalisque of the Imperium. The violet eyes glowed with unnatural light, but the smile which touched his mouth was sad.  
''I am so very glad,'' he murmured as he moved and flipped Elgalad onto his back, cloaking him with his own raven hair. ''that thou wert not.''

~~~

**New Cuiviénen**

The Noldor had taken an interest in the lands they passed through, especially the mountainous regions where no men dwelt. They loved the high lands and open places, and determined to spread north and build along the route they had taken, raising fortresses on the slopes of the hills and mining them for their wealth. Some, like Celegorm, considered going east but Maglor spoke against it.  
"It is the realm of Far Cathaia," he said. "And thou wilt certainly rouse the Emperor of that realm if thou wouldst take lands there."

''How dost thou know so much of the lands to the east?'' Celegorm asked. ''Or is there truth in what Curufin says, that at times thy rooms are locked and thou dost welcome Vanimórë?''

''It is naught to thee what I do,'' Maglor flashed, feeling the color in his cheeks like a brand, the tracings of fire all the way into his loins. He had not seen Vanimórë since taking a crop to him. Though he had glimpsed him in the battle against the Easterlings, fell and brilliant as a dark star, but they had not spoken.

_My dark star, who understands me so very well. _

''I only wish thee to be at peace,'' Celegorm said.

"I know," Maglor embraced his brother, smiled. 

Half of Gil-galad's folk had gone north, but Gil-galad himself and Tindómion had returned to New Cuiviénen, where the Noldor gathered to welcome the army home. There was a light in the warriors eyes which few had seen since the Elder Days and the Dagor Aglareb. Fëanor, whom had been waiting with youthful impatience, dashed out even as Fingolfin leaped from his stallion and flung his arms about him before turning to demand — and receive — embraces from his sons.

_I had to tell him who he was, _ Fanari said into Tindómion's mind as they met. _ I will speak to thee later. Fëanor wishes to tell Fingolfin himself and it is his right. _ She held him tightly. _ He told me all of thee were unharmed._

That night they feasted, Fëanor sitting close to Fingolfin and his brothers, who for this night buried their differences. The preparation for war, the battle, which had seen them fight as they had long ago, forming into one lethal entity, had both allowed their fires to blaze freely and calmed them in the aftermath.

It was very late or perhaps very early, when Fingolfin left the great hall and found Fëanor waiting in his chambers. His eyes were jewels in the light of the Noldorin lamps.

''I thought thou wouldst be abed,'' he said, surprised.

''I wanted to see thee alone, Nolofinwë.''

The name caused Fingolfin to pause in the act of slipping off his jewels.

''I know who I am.''

Fingolfin turned.

''Fanari — _mother,_ told me.'' There was a deep intake of breath. ''I hurt her. I was angry, and impatient. I wanted to know more about my...about Vanimórë, about myself. I used my mind and it...hurt her.'' Fingolfin stepped toward him in consternation, and Fëanor flung himself against into his arms.  
''I thought I had killed her! When she woke she told me that I am Fëanor... but I do not remember.''  
He shuddered violently. Fingolfin gathered him close.

"Thou shouldst not have hurt thy mother, but thou art remorseful, thank Eru." He sat down, wondering why Fanari had said nothing, and then knowing why.  
''Yes, thou art my dearly beloved half-brother and thy memories will return in time.''

''Beloved? I betrayed thee and left thee to take punishment in Aman. I drew steel on thee and yet thou hast always...loved me.''

So Fëanor had been given the known facts, only. Fanari had judged that those others which defined their relationship were not hers to tell, and Fingolfin silently thanked her for it.

''I love thee despite our differences, as thou wilt see, one day,'' Fingolfin said. ''And then thou wilt understand.''

Fëanor leaned against him, feeling the strong beat of his heart.

''Morgoth killed thee." Outrage in the young voice. "But we met him here, and thus that tomb.'' Another shiver rippled through him. Fingolfin's arms tightened.

''Yes, we defeated him, with Vanimórë.''

"I want to see him..." Feeling loved and loving and finally peaceful, Fëanor's eyes began to unfocus.

''Thou wilt.''

In a few breaths, Fëanor was deep in sleep and Fingolfin gently kissed the sleek dark head.

''I will never cease to love thee. It was wrong, but it was wine on the tongue, fire in my soul, thou wert the most brilliant and beautiful of flames, and I can never regret it.''  
Fingolfin tipped his head back and allowed himself to drift into dream, holding his greatest love in his arms.

~~~

**Tanith.**

Aiana had planted flowers upon his sister's grave.  
Despite the slam of Vanimórë's heart, the helpless rage and grief, his face was expressionless. When he turned to Khanad, the King might have been looking at a statue.

''Will you take wine?'' he gestured to a stone bench.

"I thank thee, yes." Vanimórë sat down.

''I am glad you are come. I will make my own decisions but your counsel would be useful.'' Khanad looked into the pale liquid shimmering in the goblet. ''I have long known that Sathari has communicated with her father and brother. There is nothing the Cheyans can teach me about spying. She offered her brother sanctuary here. She knows enough of thee to be more cautious than he apparently was.''

''She has offered him refuge. And without consulting thee?'' At the grim nod, Vanimórë shook his head.  
''I did not and do not intend to oust any ruler from their throne. I ask only that they rule _under_ me and own me as their overlord. Kethaan fled back to Chey Sart, and I allowed him to. He has enough of a standing army left there to cause some problems, but Khand has bowed the knee. They were always going to be easier, Sauron's long-time allies, and I am his son, after all. But Kethaan need not fear me if he accepts me as his Emperor.''

_Oh, but he does fear thee,_ Khanad thought, knowing how many of Taraluk's old lords had coincidentally and suddenly died after his own ascension to the throne.

''There is something else. My son Palantir is looking for a wife. King Elessar has a daughters.''

''Yes.'' _Ah. _ ''Thou wouldst like me to act as an intermediary?''

''I would be grateful. Palantir will make a fine husband. Well, you can see. His wife would be his equal, and though I say it myself, a lucky woman.''

Vanimórë had to smile.   
''I will speak to King Elessar," he said. "Oh, and Khanad?''

"Yes?"

''I thank thee for thy help in the matter of the children.''

''I would not do less," Khanad responded. "And Aiana wanted to help. You know how her brother died." He glanced toward the north. "I do not believe this is your doing, I have seen enough done in the name of evil. Whatever you are, evil is too simple a word for you.''

~~~

**New Cuiviénen.**

Gil-galad walked from the pasture where the new crop of foals and their dams stood under the spring sun, and memory took him back in time to another place, a place he would see soon: Lindon.  
He had walked there long ago with Tindómion on an evening like this to ask him to choose a colt. Gil-galad had taken his arm and smiled, saying, ''What of that one? His colour matches thy hair.''

''Thank you, Sire,'' Tindómion responded with a quick smile. He thought he knew why Gil-galad kept him in his company. He had welcomed him as kin.   
''Thou art the image of Maglor," he had said. "Were it not for the red in thy hair, I could imagine thee to be thy father.''

Eärendil was incandescent in the blue-black sky as they walked back toward the palace. 

''Istelion.''

''My Lord?''

''Thou dost not like the name when it suits thee so well?''

The modeled mouth set hard. ''I am no son of Light, sire. I am got of blood and rape.'' He tossed up his head, a mettlesome young stallion.

''Thy mother loved thee and forgave thy father.'' Gil-galad reached out a hand, laid his fingers on the hard cheekbone. There was heat under the skin. ''I named thee _Istelion_ for a reason.''

''It is a great gift, Sire.'' Tindómion murmured after a moment.

~~~

A gift. It was Istelion whom had been the gift. How apt, how fated it had been. Fëanor beckoning to Fingolfin, Maedhros to Fingon and Maglor's son to himself, the pattern repeated again and again. When the young Fëanorion, infamous for being got of rape, strode toward him in the Great Hall, wary as a cat, bristling with the willingness to take offense, Gil-galad had stared, transfixed by remembrance and by... _Desire. _ Here was the very stamp of a Fëanorion, tall and powerful, slim through the flank, with long, long legs and wide shoulders. His hair rippled down his back, drawn away from his face in three wrist-thick braids. The High King heard, quite clearly, his mother's hiss of antipathy.

_Fëanorion to his fingertips, _ he had thought, as he rose in the manner of even the mightiest Elven kings. Maglor's son had gone down on one knee before him, black lashes casting shadows over his white cheeks.

It had begun then. For both of them.

_I wanted thee from the beginning,_ Tindómion had cried long after.

Fire flicked through Gil-galad as he re-lived, as he so often did, being possessed by his lover. _For he is my lover. _ and the times when it had come close. _ He played me like a lyre...and perhaps I played him too. As I do now. And I enjoy it._

He ran up the steps of his mansion, strode to his audience chamber. The ante-room was full of people, and he bent his head in brief acknowledgement.

''Istelion,'' he snapped. ''Here!''

Tindómion, who had been reading over a document looked startled as he entered the private room.

Gil-galad slammed him back against the door, his palms flat against the wood.  
"Well, _Nárya?_" The whisper was throaty. "Why dost thou wait as a petitioner? What wouldst thou have of me?"

''I wish to go north, Sire.''  
Their eyes locked like wrestlers.

''I thought thou didst wait until Fëanor was grown?'' Gil-galad drew back.

''I have spoken of it to my mother, and she has said if I wish to, then I should go. I would see the palace of Lindon fit for thee.''

''Or dost thou simply..._run,_ lover?''

''I would see it fit for thee,'' Tindómion reiterated levelly. ''Dost thou know how long I walked the empty palace, thinking I would see thee if I turned a corner, entered a room?'' His voice flicked into passion, remembered grief. Gil-galad's face cleared of its overlay of anger.

''Istelion...''

''I will go to Osgiliath and then Annúminas to see Elgalad, from there I will ride to Lindon.''

''What dost thou not tell me?'' Gil-galad demanded, his eyes narrowing.

''I do not conceal anything, Gil.''

''If we are not needed here, I also will make plans to leave ,and when I am crowned King again, then, Maglorion, thou wilt come to me, and on thy knees!'' The lordly tone flashed light into Tindómion's eyes.

_Well, my bright-burning star, I just may._ He smiled. ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nolofinwë - Fingolfin - Q  
> Nárya - My flame - Q


	7. Never Play Against A Master

  
''I will speak to Gilraen.'' Elessar rose. ''If you can vouch for Palantir of Tanith I will not be displeased with the match. I was not happy with the notion of her marrying a Variag or,'' he looked wryly at the his visitor. ''a Haradhan king or sultan whilst you were rampaging northward taking nation after nation. I want to know my daughter will be respected and, if possible, loved.''

''I can indeed vouch for Palantir, and I well know that Gondor would swoon at the thought of her marrying a barbarian.'' With a sardonic smile Vanimórë came to his feet, joined the King at the window. Below them in the gardens, a group of women walked.

''Gilraen, Tinwen and Alphwen,'' Elessar said.

"Gilraen is very like thee.''

The king's face softened.  
"She is dear to me. I will be sorry to lose her, but if she goes to a good man I will be content."

"And will she be content?" 

" She has a level head on her shoulders," the king said. "But like all youngsters, she dreams of romance, I think." 

As they watched as two people walked through an archway at the end of the gardens, and Elessar said, ''Tindómion is on his way to Lindon, by way of Annúminas. Eldarion is going with him. My youngest daughters find Tindómion fascinating.'' There was restraint in his voice.

"If they are seeking a husband, I think thou shouldst warn them his heart is already taken."

"And he has never truly liked the race of Men," Elessar said, with a downward curl of his mouth.

"I doubt that applies to _all_ Men, but Isildur did not cover himself in glory in the Last Alliance." Vanimórë's voice was chill. "Had I been conscious, I would have dragged both he and the damned Ring to the Sammath Naur myself."  
  
Vanimórë watched the younger girls reaction to the Fëanorion with amusement. Gilraen seemed embarrassed by their behavior, and Eldarion resigned. Maglor's son was splendidly oblivious.

''Gil-galad named Tindómion High King after him.'' Feeling the king's shock, Vanimórë glanced aside. ''But the line of Fëanor was looked upon with fear and hatred by many. Gil-galad's will was destroyed.''

''Elrond was the natural heir,'' Aragorn said.

''Hardly! Tindómion's father is the second son of the greatest of the Noldor. Gil-galad meant the Kingship to return to the line of Fëanor.''

''He would have made a very dangerous King.''

Vanimórë laughed. ''I agree. But a magnificent one.''

~~~

''He is not interested,'' Gilraen said under her breath. ''You are embarrassing. The Elder Race do not often join with Mortal's.''

''We are not Mortals. We have Elven blood, we have _Lúthien's _ blood.'' Tinwen' eyes followed Tindómion. He had not responded to her overtures. She felt insulted.

''Girls, what is it?'' Their mother glided toward them, and cast a long look at the Fëanorion. She remembered too well his long-ago rejection of her, and her forced laughter was thin. ''Him. He is unnatural. He likes _men._''

The younger girls made faces indicating their disgust.

''How can he? Men are not beautiful," stated Alphwen, in the face of all the evidence before her. "But perhaps he has had little choice." She utterly missed her mother's glance of annoyance.

''Your father wishes to see you,'' Arwen told Gilraen shortly, putting her arms about her younger daughters shoulders, and swishing across the grass toward Eldarion.

''Tindómion.'' She nodded coolly. ''I hear that you ride to Nenuial with my son, and thence to Lindon?''

"Yes, lady." His reply was polite, without warmth. "I go to prepare for my king's return."

"It is as well that my husband does not claim Lindon as part of the High Kingdom." Arwen knew perfectly well that Lindon had never been claimed by Men. "Eldarion my dear, you will escort Alphwen and Tinwen to Annúminas." It was not a request. "Your father and I will join you later."

''This is not a pleasure trip, mother. I go on to Lindon to aid with the building there.''

''That is no fit work for you,'' Arwen protested. ''Mining? Building?''

''My father did much work _unfitted_ to the heir of Elendil, did he not?'' The question was level.

''Do not be a grouch, brother,'' wheedled Tinwen, flashing her fine eyes at Tindómion. ''The weather is beautiful. It will be a wonderful ride.''

''You will escort them.'' Arwen's voice was metal. ''And you also, Tindómion. I am sure you will all enjoy yourselves.''

''Do not concern yourself,'' Eldarion murmured after the women had gone. ''I will speak to my father. I most certainly will not escort them. They drive me distracted. Mother has spoiled them beyond reason.''

~~~

Back in her chambers Arwen locked the doors, drew her daughters close and whispered her proposal to them. She had been planning for some time, but who was good enough for her Flowers of Gondor? No Southron or Easterling could aspire to their hands, even had the High Council agreed to such a thing.

''He will choose me,'' Tinwen declared, when Arwen had finished. ''I should be the one to use it.''

''Both of you may use it,'' Arwen said. ''But use it carefully. It is potent.'' She took their chins in her hands. ''You should be married. Your father has dragged his heels, although it is true there is little choice outside the High Kingdom. And with the war in the South...Speaking of which, the Emperor is here. He will be at feast tonight. So, my dears, both of you have a chance.''

"_Him!_ He is here? Why were we not presented to him?" Alphwen demanded.

''He visits the King at privately at times. Imagine, one of my daughters an Empress. They say he will not marry — well, of course he would not marry a swarthy Southron.''

''But mother, every-one knows he is is infatuated with Elgalad.'' Alphwen's mouth twisted as she remembered her unsuccessful attempts to engage the silver-haired Elf when he had been here with the children brought from the Harad. Her interest in the refugees was perfunctory, and after a public demonstration of concern, she turned her attention to Elgalad. Her attempted seduction had failed; it still annoyed her. 

''Is the Emperor not dangerous?" Tinwen asked with fascination. "Sauron's son! And what of the rumors of sacrifices?''

''Your father does not believe them and neither do I.'' Arwen dipped a brush into carmine. ''Paint your lips. Sauron's son he may be, but he is also half Noldo, and suitable for you."  
  
One must seize such rare chances, she thought and remembered herself, young and furious, running to her father, crying that Tindómion had slighted her. Since Celeborn had told her she resembled Lúthien, she had woven dreams about herself, and in those dreams Tindómion had been her slave. She had thought him magnificent then, and the spoiled glamor of his name clung enticingly to him. Fending off her determined flirtation one day, he had told her that he loved another. He would not give her a name and she did not believe him, but later that spring Borniven, visiting from Lindon, whispered to her that Tindómion had loved Gil-galad. Cursed get of a cursed house, had been his words. Arwen had sought out the Fëanorion and hissed her own curse at him. She had been very young then, but she had learned things as Elrond's daughter over the years, and it would afford her some arid satisfaction to see Tindómion married to one of her daughters. It did not matter which. Who was he, a bastard, to have refused her?

~~~

''Well met, Maglorion.'' Vanimórë bowed.

''Well met, Emperor. And how is my father?'' Tindómion flashed and Vanimórë's eyes danced.

''Maglor is superb,'' he replied smoothly as they walked to the feast hall where the nobles were gathered. He heard the bitten-off gasp at his words, and winked.

All heads turned as the herald announced them. The buzz of conversation muttered into silence as they strode to the dais where the House of Telcontar were seated. The younger daughters were wearing splendid gowns, their breasts forced up into creamy mounds of flesh as the latest daring fashion dictated. Undeniably beautiful, there was a predatory, over-excited glitter in their eyes. 

_Go carefully here, _ Vanimórë advised. _Matchmaking is afoot._

Tindómion raised his brows faintly.  
_Look to thyself then. _

Gilraen, in marked contrast to her sisters, conducted herself with a dignity that Vanimórë found most attractive. Her dark hair fell thick and glossy to her waist, her skin was cream, and her smile lovely. Initially outshone by her mother and sisters, more discerning eyes recognized a greater warmth, the promise of sensuality in her movements. From what Vanimórë had seen of Palantir, they would be a good match. 

Gilraen herself was pleasurably nervous after meeting with her father and the Emperor earlier that day. Vanimórë had described Palantir, and showed her a sketched portrait. The likeness to Eldarion was startling enough for the King to raise his eyebrows.

"Khanad looks like the men of Westernessë," Vanimórë explained. "As Eldarion will have told thee, they settled Tanith long ago."

''I think I could like him, father,'' Gilraen said quietly, clearly striving to hide her interest. "If he is as kind as he is fair." She blushed at a wink from the Emperor.

"He is kind, and noble as his father, lady," Vanimórë said with perfect truth. "And he would be a lucky man indeed to have thee."

~~~

Now, Gilraen took the opportunity to ask Vanimórë more of Tanith and the family she might marry into. She already knew much from Eldarion, but wanted to glean as much information as she could. It was, after all, a marriage that would take her thousands of leagues from all she had ever known. But Vanimórë believed the match would prosper. It was easy enough to see what had happened in Gilraen's life. Thoughtful and quiet, she had become the target for her younger sisters who, having the looks of their mother, somewhat despised her for taking after her father, and for remaining unwed so long. Were it not for Elgalad, Vanimórë would have offered for her himself but she deserved more, and he thought that with Palantir of Tanith, she would get it.

When the meal was over, the king asked Tindómion if he would play. The Fëanorion sat down at the great harp, and wove a spell which brought down reverent silence. After, conversation rose again, and Tinwen glided across to him with a goblet of Dorwinion, which she presented with a graceful curtsy.

''I thank thee.'' He took the cup and drank. Tinwen whisked away to her sister with a look of triumph. Alphwen took no notice; she was eying Vanimórë thoughtfully. She had seen him down his own drugged wine only moments ago.

''Are you afraid?'' Tinwen whispered.

''What of? _I _ will be the Empress and you will only be a Lady.''

''Princess," Tinwen snapped. "And he might be king, if Gil-galad has no children, dies in some war or something...Anyway, he is a grandson of Fëanor, that is better than a son of Sauron.'' They smothered giggles as Gilraen came up to them, and smirked in the way which always roused suspicion. They were, she noted, flushed with wine.

''You should be abed, you have drunk too much,'' she observed, and was surprised when they made no demur. They bade good night to their parents and guests, and flitted off to their rooms. There they applied perfume and chose the the most transparent of muslin's for their night-robes. When the water clock showed time their mother had specified, and when the guests should be in their rooms, they crept out, clutching one another in intoxicated laughter. They had sampled the potion themselves, and were hot with need. 

~~~

''I do not believe thee.'' Tindómion whirled, drawing shut the long curtains over the window. ''After all this...we will die?''

''No. We will save what we can, which is why the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains will aid thee in building underground, deeper than Menegroth or Nargothrond and vaster. Glorfindel will use all his powers to shelter New Cuiviénen.''

''Why?'' Tindómion demanded. "Is this some move of the Valar? And what wilt thou do?''

Vanimórë told him.

"I want to ensure something is left: The blood, the memories within the souls of the people. Thou couldst help in that." His eyes glinted. "Marry one of the princesses. Continue thine own line, Elven blood into half-Elven. They are eager enough. Although were it not for the imminent betrothal, I would have advised thee to choose Gilraen."

"Very amusing. I will not trifle with their hearts when I know my own."

"I know, and I understand the game thou doth play with _thy heart._"

Tindómion tugged at the collar of his shirt, heat prickling out over his flesh. "Thou doth play _games_ with my father."

"It is not always a game," Vanimórë murmured. "He has helped me when I needed it."

Tindómion felt flushed, hungry. He was hard under his breeches, and unsurprised. Vanimórë had that effect, but the swift onset was puzzling.

Vanimórë smiled lazily. "Hungry?" He laughed at Tindómion's expression. "The two young ones put something in our wine. They hope to entrap us."

"What? They must be mad."

"And that is why I am here." Vanimórë moved behind him. "Even now one of them approaches these rooms and another goes to mine. I am thy protector this night. Beautiful Istelion, afraid to be mastered, and wanting it." He drew Tindómion back against him, heard the ragged, indrawn breath as his own erection pressed against the taut buttocks.   
"Shall we play a game?"

Tindómion caught the hands which rested on his hips, pulled them against his groin. 

''What a pity Gil-galad is not here now,'' Vanimórë whispered.

''Yes.'' It was a groan. Long fingers rubbed his tumescence.

"Thou art a fool, but I understand."

Tindómion flared: "Had he commanded me, I would have been his."

"And why should he command love? Then or now? And this night, most regrettably, he is not here, but I am. And I am as drawn to the fire of the Fëanorions as much as are the House of Fingolfin.''

Tindómion jerked free, strode to the door and locked it, then leaned against it, his head thrown back in a cloud of bronze.  
''Then show me how thou didst save my father's life in Barad-dûr, Vanimórë,'' he challenged.

"Gladly. So thou doth wish me to master thee, and all the while thou wilt imagine it is Gil-galad?" Vanimórë teased. "A nice touch, one thy father would be familiar with. And of course, Gil-galad will be enraged when he learns of it. And he will. Because thou wilt tell him."

Vanimórë closed the gap between them as he spoke, shedding his clothes, and a frisson shook Tindómion to the bone at the beauty of his naked body. He stripped off his own gear, and then was slammed back against the door as their lips met frantically, hands exploring. Tindómion sank down, his mouth closing over Vanimórë's engorged length. He heard the harsh intake of breath. Vanimórë drew him up, and Tindómion raised his legs, wrapped them around the slender hips. 

The driving thrust wrung an animal growl from his throat. His teeth closed on Vanimórë's hard shoulder. The skin broke. He was swearing. Dimly, he heard knocking on the other side of the door. It was far away. 

''_Nárya..._''

Deeper, impaled, his back grinding into the wood, slippery with sweat, and he wanted more. He was burning, laughing within the fire, urging Vanimórë to take him harder. Stars exploded in his blood. It was a long, blazing climb, and he lost his mind, his identity. He demanded release, and when it came, when nothing existed but flesh within, flesh without, his orgasm blinded him. For a moment they were locked together, spent, gasping. He lowered his legs to the floor. 

"Ah yes, thou art as magnificent as thy father." A smile gleamed in the back of Vanimórë's eyes.

"And thou art no slouch, thyself," Tindómion said. They leaned on one another and, breathlessly, laughed. The knocking had ceased a long time ago. 

~~~

Tinwen and Alphwen were not pleased with their unsuccessful hunt. Every detail had been planned, except the Emperor was not in his room, and the Fëanorion's door was locked. That had not been planned for. More, some-one had been with Tindómion, Tinwen raged at her mother and sister; the door had shook with rhythmic thuds, and they had heard masculine cries. Her imagination was not profound, but she could guess well enough what was happening, though in the intensely rivalrous atmosphere of the Queen's court, such things were not mentioned. Men existed as husbands or to be husbands. They had no other purpose. Nowhere was it written that they might prefer other men. It was disgusting, they agreed. Unfortunately, their ambitions outweighed their distaste. In the morning Tinwen asked Eldarion if he knew where the Emperor had been last night.  
''Why should that concern you?'' he inquired, trying to will away a blush, and went to find Gilraen, who was writing a personal letter to Palantir of Tanith. She paused when he entered the room, and rose to embrace him.  
''I have made up my mind,'' she told him. ''I will only be sorry to leave you." With a quick look around, she went on quietly: "Do you know that servants saw Alphwen and Tinwen last night? They were at the doors of our guests rooms.''

''I see." Now he was certain that Vanimórë and Tindómion had been together. The thought left him hot. "Mother is trying her hand at matchmaking, if I am any judge. She was with them a long time yesterday." He could scarce believe his mother would be so clumsy, so careless of her daughters' reputation, but the queen lived by her own laws. 

"They will bring disgrace on us," Gilraen said. "They have been too indulged. Eldarion, if it were not for you and father, I would be _overjoyed_ to be leaving."

"I will visit Tanith, be sure of it." He was going to miss her. She brushed at her gown, looked up at him uncertainly. There was a small smudge of ink on one cheek; he thought she had been struggling over her letter, and little wonder. She was taking a vast step, and into more than marriage. Pulling out a kerchief, he wiped the mark away. 

"Do you think Palantir will like me?" she asked. "Be honest, now."

"He will adore you," Eldarion said with certainty. "And you, my dear, will bring nothing but honour to our House."

~~~

At times in those years, children were found and taken south into Tanith or north into the High Kingdom. Vanimórë would say little of what he found to any-one, but Elgalad came to know the harrowed look in his eyes and those were the times when he seemed to seek oblivion in lovemaking. Elgalad was only too willing to help him achieve it. 

As Ellai grew, he took on an active role in the running of the Annúminas house. But Elgalad did not leave; he felt he was of use there, and would not have gone back to New Cuiviénen knowing that there were people who needed him.

The children were taught trades, the women dowered if they wished to wed. But the house was a refuge, and no-one need leave. There was always money enough, though they grew their own food, spun wool, brewed, and were given the King's leave to hunt for game. They formed an almost self-sufficient little community, and the news spread that they would not turn orphans or victims of abuse away.

Fëanor grew in stature and in skill, the very image of his old form. They were rich, quiet years. No memories came to him; it was as if he had to come to maturity of mind as well as body before he remembered. He sought to look within himself, wary now of extracting what he needed from others, and read all he history of the Noldor he could find (and it was peculiar to read of _himself_) but it told him only generalities.

It was a still, golden afternoon with the first crisp hint of autumn on the air, when he entered Maglor's chambers, and found him laid upon a couch. He looked at peace, beautiful in sleep, but Fëanor sensed turmoil and dark memories in him, and fretted to know what they were. 

Crossing to the couch, he looked down at the unconscious face and sent his mind gently beneath, to pierce the surface of Maglor's own so cleanly, so incisively that it would not wake the sleeper.

Darkness surrounded him, pain spiked through his nerves, _pain, horror, fear..._ He felt himself bound, suffocating. Raped.

Maglor groaned in his sleep and Fëanor stepped back, shirring himself free. 

_Hells, what happened to thee? _ he wondered. _Oh, my son._

Maglor woke with a start, shaking off the dregs of filth, of pain which had erupted into his dream. He walked to the window taking deep breaths of the clear air.

_No more dreams... _ He pressed he heels of his hands to his eyes, then drank wine, let it slide cool, and comforting down his swollen throat. He imagined he could taste orc filth, and drank again.

_But he never broke thee. _

_No, it was you who..._

He spun, the heavy goblet hurtling end over end, and Vanimórë caught it, the stem slapping neatly into his palm.

''I did not break thee.''

''I succumbed to thee when I would not to him.'' Maglor's voice was bitter.

''Because I offered thee forgetfulness and pleasure, he offered only pain, and, in the end, to make thee _nothing._ What we have is...''

''Naught. We have _naught._ Hells, I _am_ twisted and so art thou. That is all there is between us.''

''So be it, then.'' Vanimórë shrugged.

''Where is he, thy cursed father?''

''I do not know.'' All amusement faded from the violet eyes. "Is that what brings back these dreams, that he is in the world again?

''How can thou not know?'' Maglor demanded. ''Thou art a god, art thou not? And his son.''

Vanimórë lifted his shoulders. ''He was always good at hiding himself. But when I find him I intend to punish him.''

''As do I.''  
  
Vanimórë quirked a brow. ''Slaying one of the Ainu is merely an inconvenience for them. And as long as I exist on Arda, I believe Sauron will, also.''

''Thou canst not understand.'' Maglor clenched his hands. 

''_I_ cannot understand?''

''Then let me be there. With thine aid my father and Fingolfin slew Morgoth. Dost thou not see?''

Vanimórë nodded. ''Yes.'' His voice was gentler. ''I see. Very well. Thou wilt be there. But the dreams will never end. We can only fight them in other ways, give the memories of pain another...flavor.'' He held something out to Maglor. Whose eyes widened.

''I call it a variation upon an old theme,'' Vanimórë murmured with smile that was pure sex. ~

~~~


	8. Games of Passion and Cruelty

  

  
~ She could never be destroyed. She had only withdrawn in the face of the two Powers.

She could remember, could hate. The one whom had approached her, he too burned with ambition, and so they agreed to work together. Unlight hid Sauron. He promised her that she would have blood, but for now she must feed on fear. And she did. She did.

They aided one another as once she had aided Melkor, and she waited, never forgetting that Vanimórë had seen through her, into her, had rejected her. She could not use him as she had used Taraluk. Vanimórë had been as skilled as she at concealment. He had allowed himself to be used, all the while playing a game that she had lost in the end. She abhorred Sauron and Melkor equally, but understood them better. Vanimórë was beyond her comprehension.

_I will give thee all thou canst desire,_ Sauron promised her. He lied and she knew it, but her ego demanded vengeance, and so her Unlight cloaked him as he observed, and considered what might bring his son to his knees. When there was nothing left for him, he would be perfectly and completely refined, a sword to be wielded by whomever could master him.

Sauron found the perfect hiding place. Even Vanimórë, with all his powers, could not see through the Nothingness Ungoliant wove about him.

~~~

**New Cuiviénen**

The bridle was tooled from oxblood leather, fashioned for the rounded skull of a man. It was studded with chips of diamond, the silver bit a work of art in itself.

''The ones I wore were biter bits.'' Vanimórë held it out, one side of his mouth still lifted. ''It amused them.''

The thought was so intriguing, so wicked that Maglor involuntarily reached out a hand before stepping back. A flush mounted his cheeks.

''For me? How thoughtful.''

''It was made with...love.''

Maglor wrenched it from him as if in challenge. His hands explored the leather, the gems, the cool metal of the bit. He slid the buckles into place, unloosed them.

''I could have put it on thy son. A true war-horse, that one.''

''_ My son ?_'' Maglor's face shocked clean of all expression as if he had been slapped.

''I was saving his honour...''

The blow was so swift it sent Vanimórë's head snapping to one side in a toss of hair. As he looked back, with that infuriating smile in his eyes, a bead of blood wept from his mouth.

''What didst thou do to him?"

They went down in a tangle of long limbs and hair like wildcats fighting, all lithe speed and lethal ferocity. And Vanimórë, unforgivably, was laughing.

''He looks like thee, tastes like thee...'' he goaded as Maglor straddled him. His fist cracked against Vanimórë's jaw.  
''Why would he have thee?''

''Why should he not? His father does.''

Maglor expected to be heaved aside, and was prepared for that, but hands caught his shirt, jerked him down. Warm breath mingled with his own hard pants. ''And his father revels in it.''

''Just tell me why!''

''Because Elessar's daughters added a tincture to thy sons wine and to my own to put us in a state of rut. Thou knowest such a drug, I think? Had we bedded them, we would have been expected to wed them. Both were fertile. Tindómion might have fathered a child.'' The purple eyes smoldered like coals. ''And so I went to him. He wanted to pretend I was Gil-galad. He really is very like thee.''

''What of Elgalad?'' Maglor hissed. ''Hast thou ceased to love him, now he is finally thy lover? Was it all the chase?''

There was a moment of silence, then Vanimórë said somberly: 'I did not expect that from thee. If I do not take him he will die. If I take what I need from him, he will die. I do not know what he is any-more, what I have become.'' His lips grazed Maglor's cheekbone. ''Do something for me...''

"For _thee?"_

''Elgalad's body will remain unwithered, as Miriel's body was. And sometimes I must see him, over the endless Ages. I must see him as he was, as if he merely sleeps, to wake again. Come to him, at whiles and play to him.''

Sorrow overwhelmed Maglor. It unlocked his braced muscles, banished his fury.  
''Why must this be?

''Because not even Fos Almir can cleanse me of what I was. What I am. I take too much. I need too much.''

''_I_ am not harmed by thee !''

''Thou art Fëanorion. And thou dost not love me.'' A brief gleam renewed the pulse of need, then Vanimórë thrust up against Maglor, who felt the hardness of their arousals. He pushed Vanimórë down, and rose, turning away. Vanimórë whipped to his feet. There was the strange sensation of something cold and metallic in Maglor's mouth; deft fingers buckled the bridle behind his head. Vanimórë caught the the reins in one hand and pulled.

The bit forced Maglor's lips apart. He flung back his head furiously, and the toss of his hair brought an appreciative laugh from Vanimórë.

''A stallion. And so like thy _son,_'' he teased. The pressure was not cruel but it inexorably reined Maglor back. He felt a hand slip down to his groin.

''This arouses thee.''

Maglor could not deny it. His teeth clenched on the silver bar, indenting the soft metal as his breeches were loosed. Vanimórë's fingers were cool against his body.

''Kneel for me.''

_No._

The reins tightened. He threw back his head again with a feral sound. Something hard nudged his opening, slick with oil, but it was not Vanimórë; this was the butt of a whip. Maglor exclaimed in shock as it penetrated him. His knees buckled, and he went down.

The stock was withdrawn and the lash fell, painting thin wheals across his buttocks. Then the stinging pain was obliterated by true possession. It filled him entirely, and a groan was forced past the bit. The hold on the reins forced him to arch back, accept more and more of the pleasure-giving, pain-giving _magnificence_ – there was no other word – which blasted aside objections, shame, thought itself.

''Oh, my beauty.'' A tightening of the fingers and Maglor's neck was thrown back in a posture of complete surrender. They burned together, a detonation like white and dark light.

''I would love to leave that on thee,'' Vanimórë murmured, watching the glint and glitter of the gems. It was a tantalizingly erotic picture: the bands formed a coronal about Maglor's white brow, cupped the high cheeks. ''Hells, I would keep thee like that, ready for me to ride.'' But he removed it as he spoke, letting the bit fall from between Maglor's teeth. "I will let thee put it on me, next time."

''What _next_ time?'' Demanded Maglor furiously. ''I _hate_ thee ! Why in the Hells do I want thee?''

Vanimórë shrugged. ''Thou seest thy father in me.''

~~~

Fëanor found himself in his chamber, not knowing how he had got there. He staggered, clutching at the arras as what he had just witnessed flamed through his mind and body. Such barbaric, erotic beauty...

_My father. My son._

~~~

_Hast thou never desired anything that is outside our Laws?_

He closed his eyes, hearing his own voice. He saw...Fëanor, saw himself facing Maglor. There was something different in his son's face. It looked...not younger, but not yet harrowed by suffering and grief, its beauty unawakened.

''_Above all other things, thou art mine._''

He watched, quite fascinated, as he touched his own son like a lover, bringing Maglor's banked fires rushing up in a naked blaze. He did not take him, (and he could have, without resistance, without guilt on his part) but he was the flame that lit Maglor's desire ever after.

The vivid mind-pictures spun, burst into his mind like painted screens. He watched himself and his half brother...

_"What dost thou desire? Tell me!"_ And he saw Fingolfin's beautiful face flush as he moaned: ''_I want **thee.**_''

~~~

He was on his knees on the polished stone, heart thundering in his breast. He tipped back his head.

_I seduced my own brother, my son, and I did not care. _

''And thou wouldst do it again.''

Fëanor's eyes snapped open. Vanimórë was clothed now. The supple black doeskin only enhanced his power and grace.

''How strange it must be for thee; a youthful body, a mind so much older.'' His expression was intrigued. Fëanor felt heat like weight in his loins. Vanimórë saw it. The corner of his mouth twitched.  
''Some things have not changed.''

''Some things will never change,'' the young Fëanor said. ''I know why I was born.''

''One reason is that Eru wants thee to exist.''

''I find I cannot call thee father.'' There was challenge in his voice. It was answered by an amused laugh.  
''I was never meant to beget children, but it was necessary for thee to be reborn this way. I vowed to make thee pay for seducing Elgalad, though I know why thou didst do it. I was jealous, and now I cannot fulfill that oath, but then, some Oaths are never fulfilled, are they? And some...are.''

''Morgoth.'' Fëanor's eyes widened. "I did meet him, with thee."

''Thou wilt meet him again. That is a battle that will never end. But before that, thou hast something else to do.''

''Yes,'' Fëanor said, ''I know.''

~~~

**Annúminas**

''I have something I wish thee to see.''

Elgalad jumped and whirled at the voice so close to his ear. He laughed. ''I d-did not expect thee. What — ?'' His question was lost in the kiss.

''Close thine eyes,'' Vanimórë whispered.

There was no sense of movement, but the air suddenly felt...different. Elgalad's brow creased at the scent of ash, acrid and dry. His eyes opened.

A vast tower rose before him, so huge that it's battlemented peak was lost in cloud. It seemed to press him down, render him insignificant as an ant crawling on broken rock. He had never seen this place before, but he knew it: Barad-dûr, fortress of Sauron.

''Vanimórë?'' He heard mocking laughter. The purple eyes were blood- red.

''How long before the son of Sauron, with more power than his sire ever had, would re-build the Dark Tower?''

Barad-dûr leaped forward like some immense animal, and enclosed them both. There was a room, windowless, lit with flaring torchlight, furnished only with a heavy table stained with blood. Shackles were riveted into the wood.

Elgalad, his heart bursting with revulsion, fought, his mind screaming denial until Vanimórë slammed him down upon the table, locked his wrists into manacles. Strong hands tore his clothes and left him naked. A door creaked open.

''What art thou doing?'' Elgalad cried. 

A growl answered him as Vanimórë forced his legs apart, but it did not issue from any human throat. Elgalad had heard that sound before, from the throat of wargs.

''Trust, love. They will kill thee in the end.'' Vanimórë's voice had lost it's richness, it was hard, bitter as frozen steel. Fur brushed against Elgalad's flesh. Claws dug into his back and it...His mind cracked with horror. 

''_No!_''

His own cry woke him. His pulse was ramping, his shirt clung to his body. He sat up, almost knocking a wine-cup to the floor as he tried to pour a drink. He bit his lip, took a deep breath and drank.

He would not call out. Vanimórë had so many things he must do, and Elgalad was no child to bleat like a lost lamb over a dream.

_It was a dream._

But his body still flinched from the feel of the warg's...Sickness rose in him.

_It was a dream ! I was not raped. Vanimórë is not Sauron. But why did I dream such a thing? _

Beyond the window rolled the hills of Evendim, peaceful and green under the sun. Elgalad looked at them, trying to absorb their tranquility. Barad-dûr shoved them aside...

''I have something I wish thee to see.''

The cup fell from his hands. He spun to face Vanimórë, who was standing in the door, smiling. The expression vanished.

''What in the Hells...''

Elgalad stepped back.

''What has happened?'' Vanimórë strode forward, caught him by the arms. ''Look at me,'' he commanded, and Elgalad stared into his eyes. No wash of red. They were as they ever were: lustrous purple.

Vanimórë cursed, drew Elgalad hard against him. ''That was not...''  
Fury detonated within him like a burning star. That was no Elvish dream. An old, cold intelligence had insinuated itself into Elgalad's sleeping mind. He said, gentling his voice: ''I will never be him, _never._'' His face was ablaze as he directly challenged Sauron, wherever he was. ''He showed thee what was done to me, made thee see thyself in my place.''

Elgalad's eyes flared wide, and then thick lashes hid them as Vanimórë kissed him again and again, until one tension ran from him, and another took its place. 

''It was so r-real.''

''He meant it to feel real: it is all he can do as yet, but that he does well.''

Vanimórë disrobed them both and walked to the bed. His kisses touched every part of Elgalad, at first soft as the brush of moth-wings, then harder, patterning the white flesh with blood-blossoms of love. They traced down to the groin where he drew Elgalad almost to release before possessing him to the core, claiming him back from the monstrous rape of his dream. And that was not enough, was never enough. He did not know, at the end, if he claimed or possessed, or Elgalad owned him, commanded him to the borders of dissolution. After, when they had come back, he watched Elgalad sleep, so still that he might have been dead.   
Vanimórë closed his eyes.

_Everything they will take from me.   
Everything. _ ~

  



	9. Welcome Home, My King

~ **Lindon**

 

  
  
~ In Lindon the Noldor and the Dwarves delved and built. Mansions rose again against the pale northern skies. 

The new palace was built into one of the mountains, the visible part the least of it. The Elves and the children of Aulë delved beneath it. 

In the Spring of the next year Gil-galad began his journey from New Cuiviénen to reclaim his kingdom.  
Since Lindon abutted Arnor, King Elessar came with his son and daughters, but Gilraen was not with them. She had sailed south to Tanith. 

Tinwen and Alphwen, annoyed but not discouraged by their unsuccessful attempt at seduction were determined to succeed this time. They were called the Flowers of Gondor and not without reason. Eldarion sought out his uncles, who had come from Imladris and spoke quietly to them since he was becoming increasingly worried by his sisters' behavior.

Vanimórë was with Elgalad, who was at times, still visited by horrific dreams, but so closely was Vanimórë bound to his lover's mind that he knew when they began. He could not trace their source, but he could bar them.

"Strange that you should jump at the beckoning call of a wood-Elf," Pallando had observed with a certain superiority. He found himself on the end of such a look that he stepped back and bowed in meek-seeming apology.

"Jealous?" Vanimórë asked. "There is still enough native power in thee to fashion thyself a form that would bring lovers to thy bed."

A thin smile on the thin mouth. 

"I will think on it, Sire." 

Vanimórë would be in Lindon for at least a sennight, but had told his counselors that he would keep his eye upon the Imperium. No-one doubted it.

Fingon and Fingolfin made the journey with Gil-galad, and with them was Fëanor, his sons and Fanari. Trumpets rang out from the towers when the entourage was sighted, and Tindómion and Vórimóro came from their chambers down to the ward where their knights waited in full panoply. Mounting, they rode out to meet the return of the King.

''Welcome home,'' Tindómion said to himself. ''Welcome home, my King.''

The next day Fingolfin and Fëanor placed the crown upon Gil-galad's brow, and set the staff of rulership in his hand. In the Great Hall, the blue and gold spring day poured light through the great banks of windows, flashing from the gems of those who witnessed.  
When the ceremony was over, while Gil-galad's people still knelt, he rose, stepped down from the dais and walked to stand before Tindómion.  
''Tindómion Maglorion Fëanorion, as I did once before, I name thee as mine heir.'' He felt the wide shoulder stiffen under his hand. ''Be it known to all here present, that I long knew I would die in Mordor. The orders for the line of inheritance were written by me and sealed before certain of those I trusted. Yet they were deliberately destroyed, and there was no proof of them.'' His eyes swept fiercely about the hall. ''So here before witnesses, I name Tindómion Maglorion my heir-apparent.'' 

~~~

''Light,'' Vanimórë said. ''Greater light than the lamps of the Noldor Fëanor, light that will act as the trees did, as Anor does, so that — ''

''— living things things may grow here as they do on the surface. Yes.'' Fëanor's eyes swept the vast cavern. Graceful pillars and flying buttresses were carved from the living rock which glittered with unmined veins of silver and semi precious stones. 

''I will not re-create the Silmarilli.'' The young face was at variance with the tone of the voice, which held echoes. Will not, Vanimórë noted, not cannot.

''Thou wilt not have to,'' he said. ''But thou doth have the power and skill to do what must be done. Thou wilt save those of thy people who are not in New Cuiviénen, allowing them to live away from the light of the sun, for a time.''

Fëanor's said, ''I can do it.'' 

''I know,'' Vanimórë replied.

~~~

The spring stars burned above the palace where the sound of clear voices rose in song. Eldarion sat with Elladan and Elrohir watching his sisters with trepidation. They had drunk too much, always insisting they had the Elvish tolerance for wine.

"I agree, there is something wrong," Elrohir said quietly. "What does your father say?"

''That marriage may steady them,'' Eldarion replied.

Elladan and Elrohir had danced with their nieces' earlier in the evening. The girls had pressed close, and their lovely eyes had invited intimacy. Eldarion looked across to where his father was speaking to Gil-galad. Elessar did not need telling. He had already spoken to Arwen, who had merely lifted a white shoulder and turned away. Eldarion had long wondered if his mother's choice to embrace mortality was altering her personality; the differences now between her brothers and herself was marked. His sisters' descended upon Fingolfin, who spoke to them courteously before excusing himself to join Tindómion. Arwen stared at them with a fierce expression.

''Why does my mother so hate Tindómion?'' Eldarion asked. "The things she said of him when he visited Gondor last year were malicious."

The twins exchanged a long look. A nod was shared.  
''When Arwen was very young, she wanted him,'' Elladan said. ''I know what the people of Gondor say; that she was destined to marry Estel. It is not true. Our father considered her too far above him. Arwen believed she was in love with Istelion; an infatuation which soured when he rejected her. She had already been told that she was of the likeness of Lúthien, and perhaps she expected that she could have any-one. When she learned whom Tindómion had loved, still did, and that it was a man, she hated him.''

''But you did not?''

Elrohir shook his head, a small smile on his mouth. ''We love him.''

''And Gil-galad is here and king, and Tindómion named as his heir. My sisters' will be plotting something.'' Eldarion rose. ''Excuse me.''

Tinwen and Alphwen watched as Gil-galad moved to speak to Tindómion. The bronze haired Fëanorion was stern faced, his reply brief, but he turned as the King gestured, and walked with him. They strolled through the lawns where fountains played and the air held the cool, faint scent of bluebells, walked under an arch of stone carved like interlacing branches.

''Thine heir?'' Tindómion's voice came from beyond the arch.

''As I intended. I still wonder why Elrond did not tell thee. Enforce it. He could have.''

''Because Elrond was wise.''

''And I was not?''

''Thou wert poetic. But a misbegotten king? A Fëanorion? No-one would have accepted it.''

''To the Hells with that! Our people needed a strong king after me.''

The young women crept closer.

''We needed _thee,_'' Tindómion snarled. 

''And I am here, now.'' The pulse of sensuality in those words spurred the women through the arch. They exclaimed in mock-surprise as the two men turned toward them.

''These gardens are so large we lost our way,'' Alphwen laughed.

"These are the kings private gardens, ladies." Tindómion told them politely.

''We were only looking around.'' Tinwen fluttered her hands.

''We will take thee back to thy father.'' Gil-galad offered his arm and Alphwen clung to it as Tinwen latched onto Tindómion's. As they walked alongside their tall escorts, Tinwen gave a little cry and fell. Gil-galad put out his arms to save her. 

Tinwen, who was attempting the same maneuver with Tindómion found herself unable to move him. He knew what these two were about. His ride north last year with Eldarion had proved illuminating, but had not told him anything he could not see for himself. Gil-galad lifted Alphwen, who moaned faintly: "Oh, I am dizzy."

''You should take her to her rooms, my Lord,'' Tinwen suggested, her hands firmly latched to Tindómion's arm. 

Gil-galad cast a look at Tindómion, who wanted to laugh at the expression in the King's eyes. 

"What happened?'' 

It was Eldarion who spoke. 

''Your sister seems indisposed,'' Gil-galad told him.

''Indeed? Give her to me, I will carry her to her rooms.'' Eldarion stepped across. No-one could miss the flicker of annoyance on Alphwen's face as she was given into his arms. "Tinwen, come, you may sit with her. In fact, it is late. You should both be in bed."

''No,'' Alphwen protested, struggling to let herself down. "It was only the wine. I am well, and the night is young." When Eldarion released her, she went immediately to Gil-galad, smiling. "Is it not, my lord?"  
  
Eldarion, losing his temper, said impatiently: "This is the King's day, and he chooses to be with his heir. I saw you following them. Now come, leave them alone."

There was a flutter of silks, and Arwen appeared. Her face, when she glared at her son was thunderous. 

''I am sure,'' she said. "That the new king and his...companion can spare a little time for my daughters."

''Do you want to have this out here and now, mother?'' Eldarion asked softly. "Do you think I do not know what you and they are attempting to do?" 

Arwen stared at him, then whispered, "There are things I know, too, my son." She caught her daughters' hands, pulling them away, and looked over her shoulder at Gil-galad and Tindómion. "You," she said. "do not merit my daughters." 

The men bowed to her. She left in a angry cloud of silks, her daughters' protesting. 

''Well, well, the lines are drawn.'' Vanimórë had come on the scene unheralded. He winked at Eldarion, who blushed, then strolled away.

~~~

Somewhere, on the other side of reality, but close as a shadow, Ungoliant was not unpleased. Like Taraluk of Tanith, those young women were easy to influence.

~~~

''They tried in Gondor,'' Tindómion said.

''And what happened?'' At the silence, Gil-galad's eyes narrowed, and he beckoned. ''Come.''

They walked into the great palace, up a sweeping flight of stairs to the Kings chambers.

''What happened in Gondor?''

''Vanimórë was there. He told me what the women purposed. Nothing happened.''

''And?''

Tindómion shrugged. ''I locked my door.'' He had found it hard to feign casualness in the presence of Vanimórë, had wanted to laugh. As if in memory of the drugged wine, he was burning up, but in Gil-galad's presence he had never needed an aphrodisiac.

''And?'' Gil-galad stepped forward, caught his shoulders. His eyes widened, because he saw it there. They knew one another too well for secrets. 'Vanimórë?''

"Yes," Tindómion said simply, and waited. 

The the blow was backhanded.  
''Our games," Gil-galad hissed. "Just became rather serious.''

"They drugged my wine. I was crazed with need." Was it an excuse? ''And he knew what I wanted!''

And then the king was on him like a starving lion, ripping at his clothes. In his eyes blazed a rage that Tindómion had only seen in battle, and it was _thrilling._ He could have laughed aloud, but did not, nor did he respond, knowing what Gil-galad needed, what he himself hungered for and _must have._ Now. He had even prepared himself for it earlier.

''Yes,'' he gasped. ''Now, Gil. Now!''

The king gave him no tenderness, and he wanted none. This was how it should be, must be between them. And Hells, it was wonderful. Their cries echoed in the room; they cursed one another's names, fought like enemies and now, inwardly, Tindómion did laugh in delight. He did not want this to end, this battle, this union, the rightness of it. His release broke him, scattered him. For a long moment after the only sound was their harsh breathing. Then Gil-galad withdrew himself.

''Leave me.'' The command was flat. ''_Damn thee! _ Get out of my sight.''

Tindómion swept up his clothes, cast a look over his shoulder and walked to the door. In his expression there was something wild and sated both; a hectic glitter in his eyes.

''But that was marvelous, Gil.''

Just his look...always it had been thus, his eyes could touch Gil-galad and feel like fire on the skin.

''Get out, I said.''  
The door closed. Gil-galad loosed a long breath and poured wine. He tossed it off, and flung himself on the bed. And started to laugh.

_Bloody Fëanorions._

~~~

Tinwen and Alphwen attempted to banish their headaches with wine. When their mother entered, she made no remark. She looked ill-tempered herself, having spent most of the night arguing with her husband. 

''They must be married,'' she had urged. ''Are you a fool? Do you not care? They are the Flowers of Gondor and _will wed Kings._''

''Not an Elven King,'' Elessar had replied. "You will have to look elsewhere."

''I will not send them off to the east to some dirty tent city! They are fitted to marry any King or Emperor on earth.'' 

"Do you think so?" Her husband's look held a pity that infuriated her. ''You think Vanimórë will offer, Arwen? I would wager that every ruler of the Imperium has offered him their daughters.''

"These are my daughters, not black Haradhan sluts!"

Elessar made no reply and left to go hunting with Gil-galad and Eldarion.

''What are you doing wrong?'' Arwen wondered, as she gazed on the two women.

"It is hardly our fault that the Fëanorion and the High King like men's arses," Alphwen spat.

''Mother, you must _make_ them marry us!'' Tinwen said. ''Father must _ command_ it!''

Arwen sent her a sharp look.  
"You have drunk that drug, have you not? Fools. Well, you had better be maidens. I will have no bastard get in your bellies." Walking to the windows, her gaze became intent as she saw two men walking. One was Fingolfin, and with him a younger Elf, not yet adult but not far off; the youthful, reborn Fëanor. A smile touched her mouth. _Fëanor._

''Come here, girls,'' she beckoned.

~~~

''It is strange to remember so much and to be so young.'' The eyes which looked up at Fingolfin were not young at all.

''The years will pass swiftly.''

''Not swiftly enough.'' Fëanor's gaze devoured Fingolfin's beauty like fire. ''But I have things to occupy myself until then. I understand what I am to do, Nolofinwë.''

They had spoken of this. Fingolfin tilted his head.  
''We have faith in thee. And we will aid in all ways that we can.''

''Thou must stay in New Cuiviénen. I will command it if I must. I would not lose thee or my sons. I have not seen the future but I know it will be...terrible.''

When Fingolfin had departed, Fëanor drew forth a faceted crystal and held it up to the sun. Prisms of light danced in his eyes. He drew in a long breath, felt the Power run into him, wild, free. He smiled.

_Where there was darkness, I will bring Light and life! _

Tinwen and Alphwen pattered down into the garden. They could see the young Elf standing by a fountain. The High King of the Noldor, their mother had said, when he reached his majority.

They were brought to an abrupt and undignified halt by hands which hooked into their girdles.

''I really cannot allow it. He is, in a sense, my son,'' Vanimórë said. Fëanor turned at his voice, came across to them.

''Fëanor? Wouldst thou like to marry either of these two?'' Vanimórë inquired.

''What?'' Amusement showed in the brilliant eyes. ''I already know who I will...choose. My desires have not changed.''

''Thou didst hear? Now leave.''

Released, they whirled on him.  
''How dare you! How dare you touch us you...filthy _arse-lover,_'' Tinwen raged. A choking noise sounded behind her as Fëanor struggled with laughter; she lashed out. He swayed back easily.

''_Stop this._'' The command froze them. ''I care not who thy father is. And who knows, he might even be grateful to me were I to cause thee both to vanish — forever. I know more about thee than he does.''

He walked away with Fëanor, leaving them speechless with fear and chagrin.

''There is something wrong with those two,'' the youth said quietly. ''I observed them last night. It is something ravenous.''

''I know,'' Vanimórë agreed. ''And I know who it is. It took me a little while to realize. I may have to take measures.''

''Who it is? ''

"Ungoliant."

"_Ungoliant?_"

"And I imagine that it is she who hides Sauron. He watches me from her cloak of Unlight.''

''If Unlight hides him you will never find him,'' Fëanor stated. ''He will be watching thee now, watching us.''

''Yes, I imagine he is,'' Vanimórë said. ''Unfortunately, the bond between us is still extant. In the end, he will make himself known; he always does. I shall advise Elessar of the interest being taken in his daughters, although the only thing to do is...'' he paused. ''marry them off and have her lusts sated. Ungoliant is not clever, not like my father. She is driven only by greed.''

''What art thou thinking, Vanimórë?''

They looked up as an Elf walked toward them, his hair silver in the sunlight.

_Thou art so fortunate in that one, dost thou still mean to punish me for having him?_

_If thou wert not essential I would. _

Fëanor smiled a wholly adult smile as Elgalad approached.

_I am thinking I need to keep an eye on Ungoliant and we all need to make sacrifices._

_Thou wouldst not. Marry them? What of Elgalad?_

Fëanor stepped closer to him, earned a smile that lit the garden.

Vanimórë's expression held an eternity of sorrow, as he looked at Elgalad, and a hunger that made Ungoliant's seem a little thing.  
_Marriage means naught. Elgalad is my true mate. By my laws of the Imperium I can take an hundred wives, but nothing can break our bond. And that is the tragedy of it. _ ~

  



	10. A Golden Ring

**A Golden Ring. **

  


~ **Annúminas**

  
  
''You are trying to say that my daughters are... _possessed _ by _ Ungoliant?_'' Elessar demanded, and then gave a bark of laughter, harsh as a cough.

''It is more subtle than that.'' Vanimórë set down his wine cup. ''She influences them.''

''Can she harm them?''

''Not directly. But they are already wine-bibbers, which as thou knowest can kill in time. I can offer thee a solution: I can wed thy daughters.''

''_Wed them? _'' The Kings eyes went blank. "You do not desire an Empress, nor can you sire children. Ah.'' He paused. ''You wish to know where she is: Ungoliant?''

''Yes. At all times. Because I believe she also hides Sauron. And Ungoliant always hungers. This way, I have a measure of control over her.''

''This will not help my daughters!''

''No, it will not,'' Vanimórë admitted. "Sauron is behind this. _But think._ Why them? Thou art of the line of Elendil, which Sauron believed to be long ended. I know how well he can hate. He will encourage Ungoliant to continue to tamper with thy daughters. They will get with child soon, and force they hand. Thou wilt have to find them husbands, and who will take them? There are men in Gondor who would see them as useful, and this land has seen civil war before. Ungoliant's greed has many tentacles, and Sauron's hate for thee and thy bloodline runs deep."

The king stared at him. "Sauron."

"As long as I exist, he can return to the word. I used _him_ to escape from Ungoliant's darkness. He will take form again, in time."

''Is there nothing else that can be done? They are my daughters!" Anger blazed in Elessar's eyes. ''I love them, for all their faults. And I could have stepped in long before, when they were young. The blame is mine.''

"Some people do not merit love, blood-kin or no. I wanted to love my father."

"Arwen indulged them, calling them her flowers, telling them they were of Lúthien's blood, so that they believe they are Elves and, I think, that they may not die." Elessar moved restlessly. "A king has many duties that take him away from his family, but you know that. Will you try to help them?"

"I will try to control them," Vanimórë said. "Arwen wanted this, after all. She will be pleased, and they will think it is what they deserve. An they harm none but themselves, they need not fear my laws."

"Can they not be freed from her?"

"Why dost thou think Ungoliant finds it so easy to influence them? They are greedy, and so is she."

Elessar pushed both hands into his hair and pressed his palms over his eyes.

"And thou wouldst do well to discourage this...cult that has grown about thy wife," Vanimórë warned. "She is no Goddess, yet people carry likenesses of her through the streets of thy cities, calling her a bringer of fertility."

"That is wrong." The king's voice came muffled through his hands. "But they have never seen any woman like her."

Vanimórë smiled without mirth. "Men; so undone by beauty. But the choice Arwen made was a fools choice, and she chose when the old Powers ruled. Now she must abide by it whether she will or no, and I fear she will regret it ere the end."

_She regrets it now,_ Elessar thought, and saw that Vanimórë heard him.  
"I warn thee now as a friend. There are some things of which I may not speak, but Arwen taunts a Power she does not know."

"You speak of yourself? Glorfindel? Ungoliant?"

"There are other powers in the world than those thou knowest, and older," Vanimórë said. "To accept, even encourage worship as Arwen does, sails into perilous waters."

Aragorn said dryly: "_You_ are worshiped as a god!"

Vanimórë laughed softly.  
"But I," he said. "do not take it seriously."

~~~

**Lindon**

''I give thee a gold ring with my eternal love, and I marry thee.''

Vanimórë slipped the band onto Elgalad's finger. One sapphire glowed darkly blue on the gold.

''We call Eru Ilúvatar to witness this joining, and guard it from all shadows,'' Fingolfin intoned, and smiled at Elgalad, whose skin flushed with colour. He looked radiant as, in his soft voice, he pledged himself and slid a ring upon Vanimórë's finger. This bore a ruby, fierce and somber.

''Come.'' Taking his hand, Vanimórë walked down to the feast. He had never considered marriage before, knew there was no need, but with his decision to wed the princesses of Gondor, he wanted to show Elgalad that the move was purely political. Vanimórë could see no other way of holding Ungoliant close and with her, his father. If her appetites were met, she would remain. She would suck pleasure from what he gave the women, and he knew just how ravenous she was, for anything. For everything. He had told Elessar he would control Tinwen and Alphwen, but he knew that was impossible; Ungoliant's appetites would only grow.

Elgalad looked up at him, glowing like the spring Moon.  
  
"I love thee." Vanimórë tilted up his chin and kissed him lingeringly before the gathering. "Forever, my heart. Forever."

_Thou shouldst have loved any-one but me, _ he thought.

~~~

In Pashaar, Pallando received orders to prepare for the Imperial wedding, and kings and sultans, seeing opportunities began to make the long journey to the city. The God-Emperor might take as many consorts as he wished. There were women to offer him, women who might elevate the power of their families, bringing them greater influence and wealth. And they themselves were not unwilling.

~~~

** Pashaar - The Imperium.**

Vanimórë knew what the younger daughters of Aragorn wanted: pomp and circumstance, and he gave it to them in full measure. Their journey along the straight roads that slammed across sand and hard-pan was escorted by troops in full armor flying black and purple banners.  


When their father had called for them in Annúminas, they had found him with the Emperor who had so embarrassed them. Both turned haughty shoulders to him until the moment marriage was mentioned. It was so obvious, when they considered it. Vanimórë had acted the way he had because he was besotted by both of them and had not wished to admit it. Some men were like that, Arwen said, and naturally, he must be feeling some guilt over his behavior toward them — and the fact he would have to discard his lover.

''Both of us?'' Alphwen cried. ''How can he marry both of us?''

''He makes his own laws,'' their father had explained. ''Men in the Imperium may take as many wives as they wish, or can afford.''

''We will both be empresses?'' Tinwen demanded.

''Consorts,'' the King corrected, which brought dissatisfied pouts to their mouths before they weighed the title against the power they would wield and the one they would wed: a God-Emperor whom had cut the cloth of the Harad to his own liking.

When the women saw Pashaar rise from the desert, flaunting itself arrogantly as its ruler against the brassy sky, they experienced their first sense of awe. It had been rebuilt to provoke just such a reaction, with vast fluted columns upholding roofs faced with copper, silver and gold. The palace seemed made for gods to dwell in rather than Men. No Mortal could help but feel insignificant as they entered its precincts along roads like the spokes of a wheel, all leading to the palace, the center of power.

The air was rich with the scent of rose petals trodden underfoot, and the people, brilliant in colorful robes and veils, crowded close to see the famed King of Men, his wife and children.

Soldiers from every Imperial legion stood at motionless attention in the plaza, and at the top of a flight of shallow steps the Emperor waited. His brides had only seen him in the severe black gear he habitually wore, and were taken aback. The face frame which clasped his features rendered him strange and frightening. He, like his soldiers, wore full armour.

The brief marriage ceremony was swiftly over, and the nuptial feast, in a hall that dwarfed anything they had ever seen, was attended by kings, generals and merchant princes. Gilraen was there with her husband, a tall beautiful man who looked startlingly like Eldarion. Tinwen and Alphwen received her blessings, then ate and drank until they were lead to the Emperor's chambers and his bed.  
Giggling, they turned to find their new husband in the room with them. He was naked, his white skin drawn by savage tattoos, hair rippling to his knees, a smile on his mouth. The morning found them tangled in silk, aching with the deflowering which had pleased the dark spirit of Ungoliant mightily.

Exercising their first orders, they demanding wine from the silent slaves, and drank it laughing as they compared the night. When their mother was shown to the chamber later, they regaled her with the details of the Emperors eagerness. He was, they said, like a bull in heat.

In the afternoon, the sisters granted Gilraen an audience. Elessar's eldest daughter had spent the morning with her father and brother, and greeted Tinwen and Alphwen pleasantly. There was a gloss about her that a woman wears when she loves and is loved in return, and she bore her new title with grace. But after, she was troubled and spoke to Elessar, saying her sister's were already wine-flown.

"They are over excited and nervous,'' her father said, for he would not tell Gilraen the truth. ''Marriage will settle them.''  
He already believed this to be a mistake, but he was also relieved that his younger daughters were off his hands, and felt guilt at his relief. Yet he knew that he had allowed his wife to spoil their youngest daughters. The emperor would not be so indulgent. Or so he hoped. Gilraen bent her head, and did not tell him of her own private speech with the Emperor, that she had asked him if her sisters were a little mad.  
"Not yet," he had said. "But they will be. What a shame they are not like thee. And if they were, my lady, then they would deserve far better than I. As it is, they do deserve me." And his face had softened. "But thou art in love, and are loved in return. I hoped it would be so."

"Yes, my Lord." Gilraen had felt herself blushing joyously. "Palantir is gallant, and a warrior also whom the army respects. His father and Aiana have been very kind."  
She did not say that Queen Sathari bore her no love, and that the feeling was mutual. Thankfully, Palantir, while respecting his mother, was not influenced by her dislike.  
"I must thank you," she said, "for broaching the marriage to my father. Tanith is beautiful, and its people have Taken me to their hearts." She did not speak either, of the pleasure she found in the bedchamber, the rich vein of sensuality she had discovered in herself, but she thought he knew, and for his own inscrutable reasons, had chosen to maneuver she and Palantir together.

Vanimórë had kissed her hand. "Some things, my Lady, are worth saving. Thou art one of them. I hope to visit Tanith soon."

~~~

Whatever Tinwen and Alphwen had expected, their new life surpassed their imaginings. They had countless servants, might ask for anything they wished, need not rise from bed if they did not desire to. In short, it was a life perfectly made for the shiftless. Or for Ungoliant.

They had never learned how their father ruled, did not know or care how important trade was, the army, or the delicate dances of political intrigue. They thought that an emperor must be able to command anything, then sit back and do as he pleased, and they expected Vanimóre spend his time pandering to them. He came to them at night and serviced them, sometimes early, other times close to dawn, but in the day he was hard to find. When they asked where he was, they were be informed that he was with his army, or perhaps in another city.

''Or in Lindon or Annúminas, my ladies,'' Pallando informed them one afternoon, that thin on his mouth. 

''Oh, those orphans," Tinwen shrugged. "I wonder he finds the time. Well, you are a wizard, like father's tales of old Mithrandir, are you not? Speak to him in his head, tell him we want him.'' She looked at her sister and they laughed.

"'I may certainly call out to him, but not for a matter such as this," Pallando said calmly. ''He will come when he comes.'' He observed the women curiously, knowing as well as Vanimórë that their bodies could not cope with the over-indulgence in wine and the drugs they were experimenting with, but it was nothing to him if they killed themselves.  
''He might be more inclined to be with you, if there was a sign that you were with child.''

''We were told he cannot father children.'' Tinwen sipped wine.

''Oh, it would be rare, but not impossible, he did after all sire the reborn Fëanor, did he not? There is _something _ you could do...'' He left the bait hanging tantalizingly. Alphwen said, impatiently: ''What?''

''He may be a god but he is also male, and he is potent enough, is he not?''

They tittered.

''You need only get pregnant, both of you, and he would believe it was his. He longs for children. He may thank you by making youe empresses in name, and spending more time here.

''But...''

''Many of your subjects desire you, my ladies,'' Pallando murmured delicately.

It was too easy. Their appetites in all things were now gross under Ungoliant's influence. Had they been any other women, Vanimórë might have felt pity for them, but they enjoyed their gluttony and lived to feed it. They did not fight it. Ungoliant did not sew lust, but was attracted to it, and had found, as in Taraluk, the perfect receptacles for her own unassuagable hungers. 

In a few months the women had slid into lives of drunkenness and, like most wine-bibbers, neglected personal cleanliness. It was distasteful to the fastidious Vanimórë, but as long as he kept the hunger within them appeased, he knew where Ungoliant was. And it had to be done.

News came that Arwen was with child again, and it arrived in the early days of the sisters own pregnancies, which they were certain would please their husband and elevate them in rank. As the ever-helpful Pallando had said, there were many eager to bed the Emperor's wives. There were, if they were given enough coin.  
It had required he use all his arts to get men to come to them, because no-one wished to incur Vanimórë's wrath. But Pallando had explained urbanely that the God-Emperor cared not one whit, that his true lovers were far away. This marriage was merely political.  
The men were paid handsomely, promised that they could, to all intents and purposes, vanish afterward and make their lives elsewhere. Primed with with judicious amounts of drugs and wine they were lead secretly to the women's chambers, and after performing, they were were killed.

There was always more than enough work for assassins in the Empire and it was not long before the ladies were asking their husband's Chief Councilor to arrange for one or more to go north to Annúminas. Hearing the name had made them think of their husband's erstwhile lover. While they did not want to believe Elgalad still held the Emperor's affections, that he once had was cause enough to want him gone. Pallando's occasional hints needled them, and Vanimórë refused to speak of Elgalad at all, which they found suspicious. When approached, Pallando absolutely refused to entertain the notion, and warned them that they trod dangerous ground. They scoffed. They were above threats, the Emperor's wives. It did not take long before the servants found contacts. The women had discovered that in the Empire, life was worth only as much as one was prepared to pay for it.

~~~

**Annúminas.**

A stream danced downward toward Lake Nenuial through banks of fern. Far above a skylark poured down music in a torrent, so high in the lucent air that only Elven eyes could have followed its exuberant flight.  
The grey eyes that watched it caught a pale flash of blue from the sky before thick lashes dropped over them. Elgalad purred like a cat under the caress of Vanimórë's hands.

He thought very little about the women in Pashaar, even when Vanimórë was not with him. He was too centered upon the passion that continued to unfold in him that, he knew, was burning him alive. He sighed under the touch of the sun, the touch of the hands, drew Vanimórë with him into the fire.

Vanimórë was as helpless as his hapless wives, possessed as surely by Elgalad as they were by Ungoliant. 

_I will love thee forever, Elgalad Meluion._

_Eru have mercy on me. I will love thee forever._ ~


	11. A Frost In Spring

**   
**

**Annúminas**

 

  
  
~ Vanimórë fastened his tunic, slid his harness onto his back. In the pre-dawn grey the great drift of Elgalad's hair glimmered on the pillow. Cat-footed, Vanimórë walked to the bed and looked down at the sleeping face. His thoughts threatened to unman him, drive him mad. 

_So little time_

Every moment he could spare, he spent with Elgalad, or with Maglor. He needed them both; the love and the hate.

_There could never be enough time._

Soon he must meet with his generals returned from Chey Sart and Khand, and ensure that Ungoliant's rapacious hungers were met. Ungoliant was killing Elessar's youngest daughters. As Vanimórë was killing Elgalad. 

His hand hovered over the lovely face, then his head snapped up as. Pallando, the only person in the Imperium who could address him mind-to-mind was polite as ever, but Vanimórë heard the underlying humor in his voice. It chimed with his own as he replied andm after a last long look at Elgalad, he left.

** Pashaar - The Imperium.**

It was past daybreak in Pashaar and already Tinwen and Alphwen were drunk. They had arrayed themselves grandly, dripping with gems, their eyes painted with kohl and gilt-dust, their lips with carmine. They did not rise as he entered. The reek of wine and perfume mingled with incense.

''Pallando informs me that thou art both pregnant,'' he said.

Tinwen ran be-ringed hands over her stomach. 

''Our family is very fertile, you know.''

''There will be changes,'' Vanimórë pronounced. "Thou hast the children growing in thee to think of now, and the early days of pregnancy need especial care."

Their mouths formed pouts at this news. Under stiffened lashes the glow in their eyes was like that of the corpse-flames which had burned in the Dead Marshes. _Ungoliant's eyes._

''We are Peredhil, such things do not matter,'' Alphwen informed him. ''Perhaps for Mortals, but not for us.''

''Better to be safe than lose the bab,.'' Vanimórë did not intend to indulge them in this matter. ''Children are very special to me. I order the both of thee to rest until thou hast given birth. And no more wine.''

Tinwen's teeth closed on her lower lip. "That is stupid, and unnecessary."

_ Ungoliant, it seems thou wilt not learn._

Alphwen pushed herself upright. ''Will we be empresses? If we give you sons, we will have to be formally crowned.''

''The Imperium has an emperor, ladies, it will not have any empresses. My edict on this is clear.''

''But _he_ said...Pallando said you would make us empresses,'' Alphwen protested. ''Do you think we want to push out a squalling brat for _nothing?_''

''Well, pregnancy is one of those things which tends to happen in marriage," Vanimórë said icily. "Thou hast my condolences.''

What was looking out of their eyes was growing stronger, he thought, more inhuman and uncontrollable. Even as he thought it, Tinwen waved to a servant, who poured wine for her. She drank it off.

"No wine, I said." The servant, a young woman, shrank back.

Tinwen blinked up at him, spoke as if to an idiot.  
"I know you know nothing of the Elves, husband, but I assure you, wine will not harm us at all."

"You are not Elves." His patience had worn thin. They were not afraid of him. They did not respect him or any-one, even their own father, and both he and Elessar were not the kind of men who showed violence toward women.

"We are Peredhil, with the strengths of both Elves and Men." Tinwen wriggled back in the cushions. "We have read that book, _The Garden of a Thousand Delights._ Do you think you have the strength to show us some of those illustrations?"

''It is thy first time with child. No wine, no sex, nothing that might harm the babe.''

"You are so ignorant," she sneered. Clearly his orders would be disregarded, and he could not be here all the time to enforce them. Anger clenched in his belly.  
''If we cannot have sex, neither can you.'' Alphwen waved an admonitory finger. 

''Although,'' Tinwen mused. "There are other ways to take your cock, are there not?"

Her sister's shoulders shook. She turned and presented her rump, burst into giggles.

Tinwen smiled sweetly. "And in case you should be thinking of going back to that stammering fool, we have taken steps to ensure you will not." 

"Not unless you like humping corpses," Alphwen added.

Vanimórë had been watching them expressionlessly. Until now. He spun on his heel and exploded into power. The air cracked and let him through. Alone in the chamber, the women gaped at one another, a shadow of fear coming at last, and far too late, into their eyes. 

~~~

**Annúminas**

The dew was thick on the grass, the air ripe with the sharp scent of a spring dawn. There was mist now, but the sun would burn it off once she rose.

Fanari had arrived late last night escorted by Elladan and Elrohir, who were returning to Imladris. Their journey had been luxuriously slow, since they rode beside a wagon piled with gifts for the refuge. There was no other escort. This deep within Arnor, the King's peace was absolute. Tindómion had offered his company, but since his mother knew that he was merely dancing around Gil-galad she refused it. As for her younger son, he was busy within the Smith's halls, but he had given her something before she left.

''Elgalad was telling me that some of the Haradhrim children are afraid of the dark,'' he said, his youthful face grave as he opened a silver casket. ''I thought they might like these. They do not need time to light, as a lamp or candle, and they would not catch alight if they were dropped or knocked over.''

Fanari had exclaimed as the opening lid revealed a sunlight-glow, warm and golden as a summer evening. It welled from intricately faceted crystals.

''Only clear quartz,'' Fëanor explained as he held one up. ''Like the lamps I made once, long ago, but I have been working on something else. See? And they are too large for a child to choke on.''

''I am...astonished,'' she said truthfully. ''Is this sunlight, then?''

He smiled, the pride still child-like.  
''Yes it is. I have trapped Anor, one might say. And we will need it.''

She had embraced him, proud of his brilliance. On the journey had sewed little bags for the glow-stones, which the children might tie onto their girdles. She was charmed by Fëanor's thoughtfulness, and agreed that such things might be a comfort to a child waking from a dream of terror in a dark bedroom.

''My lady.'' She was greeted by Ellai, who ushered she and the twins into a room where a small fire burned. ''You are welcome. Forgive me, I was about to retire when I heard wheels. Did you wish to see Elgalad? The Emperor arrived here early this evening.''

''It will wait until the morning,'' Fanari said. ''Forgive us for coming so late.''

''The Emperor is usually gone by dawn. Elgalad joins us to break fast,'' Ellai told her. ''And visitors from Lindon never need ask forgiveness, lady. Let me show you to chambers.'' He hesitated. ''Ci thrudol.''

The Peredhil smiled dazzlingly, and Elladan said, ''Your accent is perfect. Elgalad is a good teacher.''

Ellai flushed and laughed a little as he lead them up a flight of stairs.

Fanari had washed and changed and taken some fruit and wine, but she did not go to bed. The first piping of birds sent her silently through the quiet house, and out into the garden. A dusting of apple blossom starred the grass; from one of the old branches a mistle-thrush loosed a rich trill of sound.

The wall which enclosed the grounds of the mansion had been built high, away from any trees that might tempt an intrepid child, but a lithe Man could jump, and pull himself up, as could an Elf. Yet the house had never been troubled by thieves; it was under the protection of the king, within sight of the palace. But it was not thieves who had climbed the wall in the dark before dawn and no Elf either, though the intruders were almost as silent.

Fanari paused at a small fountain and cupped her hands, tasting the sweet, stony flavor of the water, then walked to the front of the house. The mist was thickening as it often did near the lake at dawn, but it was not dense enough to hide the dark shape that flitted noiselessly across the lawn. It ran and jumped to grab the top of the portico above the main door. She knew by the gait it was no Elf, knew too, whose room lay above the door. She did not know if Elgalad was alone or whether Vanimórë was still with him, and reacted out of pure instinct. Her sharp rill of thought and speech broke the morning quiet.

''Stop!" _Elgalad!_

She had taken only one step forward when a crossbow bolt struck her in the breast. A second figure melted back into the fog.

Her hands were at her chest, pain exploding cold, hot, cold through her body.  
_Oh, Eru,_ she thought with a strange bright calm.  
The barb quivered to her faltering heartbeat, her shortened breaths. She staggered. The wet grass rose to meet her as, very slowly, it seemed, she fell. The turf smelled sweet.  
_ It hurts...!_

_Elgalad...? Vanimórë!_  
She wanted to scream, but there was no air.  
_ Tindómion. Fëanor... _

_Come, Fanari,_ said a warm voice.

And then there was no more pain.

~~~

The delicate hammer smacked down with a bang upon the table. Glittering gems flew in a colored shower. Images whirled in Fëanor's mind, and his mother's last cry echoed in his mind. He reached for her. 

The Elves bent over their tasks had turned to stare. Fëanor threw back his head and shouted: "_Mother!_"

~~~

Elgalad rolled from the bed before he was fully awake. There was hiss and smack as something hit the pillow where his head had lain, a whine as a dagger sheared along Elgalad's left arm before thudding into the paneled wall. The Man was fast and deadly, but his contracts had never been Elves. Elgalad drew the embedded knife from the wood, turned and threw it even as the assassin reached for another. The returning blade took him in the throat. For one moment, he stood motionless before falling to the rugs, his lifeblood staining them crimson.

From outside voices were shouting, children cried. Elgalad heard the crack of crack of sword on sword. He ran for the window, leaped onto the flat roof of the portico, and down onto the grass.

''Elgalad!'' Elrohir ran through the mist. He too was naked, but held a sword. Behind him Elladan appeared, his own blade running red.

''There w-was a man. He is d-dead.''

The Peredhil gave identical nods.  
''We found another. There may be more. We heard Fanari. She...'' They fell silent, the words choked off, and Elgalad turned to see a crumpled shape on the grass.

''No...'' Elladan whispered. ''_No._''

The air snapped with concussion, burning clear through the fog and Elgalad felt the warm hand on his shoulder settle and grip there as Vanimórë looked past him. Fury turned his eyes to purple lamps in the dawn.

''I know who ordered this.''

''Who?'' The twins demanded.

''Thy cursed nieces, Peredhil,'' Vanimórë said.

~~~

** Lindon **

''No! Thou wilt not!'' The psionics of the voice rang against the pillars, as Vanimórë faced the burning-eyed young Fëanor, whose face was salt-white, tears on his cheeks. Behind him stood Fingolfin, his hands on the shaking shoulders.

''Why not? Thou didst say they ordered Elgalad's death, and through that my mother is dead.'' Fëanor was limned by a diamond glow, an aura which blazed from under his flesh. ''It is my right to punish them. They _deserve_ death!''

Fresh tears bloomed, spilled. The room hummed with power, with tension and grief. The slam of a door broke the silence as Tindómion left the room. A moment later Gil-galad followed him.

''They will die,'' Vanimórë promised, cold as winter, ''But not yet.''

The youth shook into desperate, gulping sobs. ''Why not yet?'' he cried. ''_Why not?_''

The sculpted face held something as implacable as doom.  
''They will die according to the laws of the Imperium, and they are with child. I will not kill a pregnant woman. I cannot.''

Fëanor turned to Fingolfin, buried his face against his breast. Over his head, star-blue eyes met violet.

_ I grieve for Fanari; I owe her more than any Power could repay for warning Elgalad, but I must obey my laws and I will not execute a child in its mothers womb. _

Black lashes shadowed Fingolfin's eyes as he looked down at Fëanor.

_Thou hadst better see to this matter, Vanimórë, or we will deal out judgment to the damned women ourselves, once they have birthed. Fanari gave my brother back to me, gave him back to his sons. This cannot go unpunished. _

_It will not,_ Vanimórë vowed.

~~~

''Istelion.''

Gil-galad saw the gleam of bronze hair under the sun as Tindómion strode down the steps and through the gardens. He did not look back or pause and Gil-galad ran, catching his arm, pulling him about.

"I was going to go with her." His eyes were a cry of pain.

''The Peredhil were with her, and they are great warriors, do not blame thyself, who could have known?''

''To survive the Fall of Gondolin, the Sack of the Havens, to bear me and to die by the hand of a Mortal assassin?'' Tindómion slipped to the ground, his head against the King's thighs.

It was the closest they had been since that wild night of the crowning. Between them still would flare looks laden with a living, fierce hunger, but both had maintained a distance. There were many things to do. When Tindómion was not with the King's knight-companions, he was often to be found with Fëanor or in the deep delvings. At times they hawked or hunted together but never alone, something solid as a slab of stone seemed erected between them which neither would break through. The game had passed to a new level, and a very old one. 

''I loved her too," Gil-galad said, hand on Tindómion's head. "She told me of my father's love for Maedhros, made it seem beautiful and right, not twisted as those of my court would have it.'' There was the angry burn of tears behind his eyes. He sank down, holding Tindómion as both wept with the heartbreaking sorrow of warriors.

''I will kill them.'' Tindómion's voice cracked.

''They will die, Istelion. Wait. Thou must wait."

~~~

He came from a blessed dream of childhood days, only to be assailed by the renewed assault of grief, a mace of anguish striking his soul. Voices were speaking quietly close by, and Tindómion blinked, his eyes focusing as he listened to his father's voice and Gil-galad's. Was this his chamber? No, Gil's He remembered being lead here in a storm of anguish, drinking deep from a wine laced with something bitter and heady, and then nothing.

''... must not be permitted to leave Lindon. We can trust Vanimórë.''

''He will go nowhere, Maglor, I promise thee.''

''Fanari's death will be avenged," Maglor said. "I have come to know Vanimórë. He can enforce absolute control on himself, do what he must until the time is right.''

''She damned well _will_ be avenged. The assassins may not have sought her life, but still she was murdered, and they were sent by those women.'' Anger pulsed in Gil-galad's tone. ''An ignominious death. A waste...''

''I know,'' Maglor's voice was somber. He came to Tindómion's side and saw him awake.

''Istelion. Hear me; I will not lose thee, and Gil may command thee.'' He lowered his head, kissed his son and silently left the room to mourn some-one he had come to think of as a friend, the mother of his son, one who had forgiven his madness and understood his heart.  
Maglor wept.

There was the sound of wine being poured. Gil-galad raised Tindómion to drink. The fruity scent was clean of the drug which had whirled him into sleep, and he drank deep.

''Thou didst hear, Istelion?''

''I heard.''

''I command thee.''

The silver eyes rose.

''I _command thee._''

Breath sighed from Tindómion's lips.  
''Yes, sire. And yet my mother lies dead.'' The iron which held back his tears buckled under the magnitude of his sorrow, his shoulders heaved. He felt Gil-galad's embrace tighten.

''The guilty will be punished. Women though they are, there is always a choice, between the thought and the deed.''

Tendrils of fury seemed to uncurl from the wine which glowed in Tindómion's stomach. He felt the strong, slender fingers of his King touch his chest, spread there a moment in a gentling gesture, before lifting.

Tindómion's hand snapped up and caught his wrist.

The star-colored eyes met his as his grip drove to the bone. Gil-galad was pulled down into a kiss of need, of absolute hunger.

The King and Maglor had disrobed Tindómion as he slept, and he tore the tunic and breeches from Gil-galad then tumbled him onto the the bed, face down, straddling him. Gil-galad felt the cool flood of the hair across bare skin, the hot, hard jut of the erection against the cleft of his buttocks. His hands clenched in the silk sheets as Tindómion taunted him by rubbing, by patterning sensual kisses over his back, pulling aside his hair, moving back so that his white teeth closed on the firm rear. A groan issued from the king's throat, and he bucked back.

''Take me !''

''Is that a command, sire?'' Tindómion's voice was smoky with pain and need. He rimmed the tight opening with his tongue. Gil-galad hissed.

''_Yes, _''

Something like a sob broke from both of them as Tindómion pushed into him hard, drew back and thrust again. Their moans grew louder: lust spun them into a storm which took the Fëanorion away from his anguish. Pain throbbed, pulsed like a heart, _pain-pleasure, pain-pleasure_...a striving which shattered them into ecstasy.

~~~

''Thou didst need that, I know, so I let thee master me,'' Gil-galad told him, sated. ''But next time thou wilt be the one writhing under me, _Nárya._"

For a moment, peace overlay the brutal loss in the silver eyes, and through it surfaced a challenge, a re-emerging fire.

"Sire. I thank thee." ~

~~~


	12. Beauty of the Soul

**Pashaar - The Imperium.**

 

~ _Then they are not to be punished?_ Pallando asked, puzzledly.

_They are with child._ Vanimórë's lack of emotion was more frightening than fury. _I want it proclaimed now that any hired killer found in the north will result in a purge through every damn cadre of them. And I_ do _know how to find them. _

Vanimórë could sense his Chief Councilor's wariness. Returning from Annúminas, he had ruthlessly swept through Pallando's mind to discover what he knew, but had found nothing to implicate him, and had not thought he would. The man was no fool. Once the pain had receded from his mind, Pallando swallowed bile, and dabbed at his brow in relief.

_Your will, Sire, but I fear I cannot understand._

_It is not necessary for thee to understand._

_They are demanding to see you, Sire._

_I would be tempted to kill them. _ The ice vanished in a blood-red burst of rage.

Elessar continued to hear rumors of his younger daughters. Messages were sent to Pashaar after the birth of his last child, another daughter, and gifts came back from the Emperor, but no word from Tinwen or Alphwen.

Other news came from the Empire also: of dark rites, and the terrible punishments the God-Emperor meted out on the perpetrators. To the people of the North, the Imperium was gaining a reputation as a place of dark sorcery. It was said that Vanimórë could grant undying life to those who pleased him. Elessar doubted that, or rather that Vanimórë would tamper with such things, but he had concerns of his own, though he thought Vanimórë played a part in them. His son refused to commit to marriage, and Elessar thought he knew why.

~~~

**Annúminas**

The voices of the Elves rose in lament as they remembered the life of Fanari Penlodiel. Together, Maglor and his son wove a spell of sorrow as the stars opened and the wind died leaving a great silence after the last harp-notes ceased.

Fëanor sat beside Fingolfin, his head bowed. The youth had come to him, asked what curse lay on him that he had lost both mothers, Miriel and now Fanari.

''No curse lies on thee, _Nárë tauranya._'' Fingolfin drew him close.

''She said she would not die.'' The gemlike eyes were stark. ''Some-one wanted to take her away from me.'' His tender mouth compressed. "And they will pay. Vanimórë must make good on his promise, or _I_ will avenge her!'' His voice was as hard metal with the vow.

Now, Fëanor leaned his head against Fingolfin's shoulder staring at Elgalad.  
He remembered everything now. _Everything._ There was something so..._ luscious_ about Elgalad, that melding of warrior-strength and purity that had nothing to do with innocence. Fëanor inwardly cursed the adult thoughts and desires which plagued him, but knew his maturation could not be hurried, that he must use the time well. And at this moment, he was not thinking only of sex; the sadness on Elgalad's face was so profound that out of his own grief Fëanor wanted to offer comfort, convince him that Fanari's death had not been his fault. He rose, crossed to Elgalad. The water-clear eyes turned to him.

''I will see thee later.'' Vanimórë melted silently into the night.

''Walk with me,'' Fëanor said.

Even in the dark beyond the lamplight, Elgalad's hair gleamed silver, unworldly. 

''Do not take the blame on thyself," Fëanor said. 

''She saved my life and they took h-hers." Elgalad's profile was as marble. "I was foolish to set no guards, to believe all was safe.''

''It _was_ always safe.'' Fëanor's voice caught. He halted, looked up. "Vanimórë _will_ ensure they are punished? I feel his rage but _I_ would have slain them by now.'' His nails dug into his palms. "I have not his control."

''Yes,'' Elgalad affirmed. ''But they are with ch-child. Not his, but he will not kill them w-while they are carrying another life.''

''He loves thee. If thou hadst been slain would he not have killed them at once?''

A difficult expression crossed the lovely face. Elgalad glanced into the dim gardens as if he could track Vanimórë's steps. "He has never knowingly harmed w-women." 

Fëanor lifted a hand, drew Elgalad's head back. ''They are not women, not wholly." 

"I know," Elgalad looked back at him and frowned. "And still. I am not sure wh-what he will do." 

"Thou art thinking whatever he does will harm him?" 

"He is trying n-not to be his father," Elgalad said. "Yet already he is called th-the Dark God." They looked at one another. Fëanor said, after a moment, "Wilt thou stay with me tonight?'' At Elgalad's widening eyes, and he was sure, a spark of their shared memories, he shook his head wryly.  
''I am a little too young for that, regrettably. And I do regret it! I would like thy company.''

Another look into the night and Elgalad nodded. ''Yes," he said. "Of c-course.''

~~~

''How canst thou bear it? That mad Emir, Ungoliant — these two demons.''

Maglor paced his chamber like a restless panther. He paused to caress the lines of his great harp, tracing the whorls of nacre and gold set in the polished wood. His touch was like a lover's.  
''She should have married me. Not that I would have stopped her going to the refuge, but I might have been with her.''

''Fanari grew too wise to want to marry thee.'' Vanimórë leaned back against the door. ''She knew what thou needest. As thy father did. As I do.''

''Yes.'' Maglor tipped back his head, exposing the elegant line of his throat, and closed his eyes. "Thou hast not answered me. How canst thou do these things?" When no answer was forthcoming, he opened his eyes again, found Vanimórë standing directly before him. Their gaze held. 

Maglor's back hit the wall as they strove in the kiss, wild, demanding. They shed their clothes, sank to the deep rugs in an interlocking of long limbs. There was no time for play this night, both were too fierce in their hunger, and part of Maglor hated that he could be so roused, used so savagely, and do nothing but respond, savor each thrust that burned pleasure through him until his mind and body blazed molten.

Vanimórë's mouth grazed down his stomach drank his spilled seed, then kissed him again, hard as a blow across the face.

''I can do it because I have to,'' he answered Maglor's question at last. ''And because I have Elgalad, and thee.'' There was something both heated and tender in his eyes. ''And I need both of thee.''

''It is not our way to make war on women, but what wilt thou do?'' Maglor came to his feet.

Vanimórë lifted a brow. "Let me ask thee something. No verbal sparring." He poured two goblets of wine. "What could I have done to thee, what could I have been? Tell me: _what could I have been?_"

"Thou couldst have been as they were." Maglor said slowly. "Taken me in chains to Númenor, watched Sauron break me, watched me die...corrupted Elgalad or taken him to Mordor, and a terrible death." He reached out, cupped Vanimórë's chin in his hand. "Yes, I know what thou couldst have been."

''Tell me this also: what excuse suffices for two women brought up in wealth and comfort, loved and pampered, wanting for nothing, to become things of spite and selfishness, caring naught for anything save their own pleasures?" He drank, slapped the goblet down. "Within most people, those who abuse, those who kill, there is a reason in their past for their actions. They themselves were hurt, or perhaps something sickens in their mind. But those two have had naught but care, and Ungoliant fought no battle to enter them. Like Taraluk, they were vessels waiting for her.''

''I do not know,'' Maglor said. "Gil-galad's mother was the same until she was freed of Varda's influence."

''I do not believe these people do not have a choice. Every-one does.''

''So. What wilt thou do?'' Maglor asked frowning.

The answering smile was chilling. ''_I_ will not lay a hand on them, my beauty. I do not hurt women. Oh, and one thing...''

''What?''

''Thou didst almost show some care just then, do not go soft on me. I like the spice of hate.''

''Do not worry,'' Maglor burned up. ''Thou knowest well enough how I feel about thee!''

''Good, hold that _resentment,_ Fëanorion. I so enjoy it.''

~~~

**Pashaar - The Imperium. **

The month before Arwen was delivered of a child, Alphwen miscarried of a dead baby. Once recovered, she blamed the midwives, ordered their deaths, and demanded wine and her pipe for nerves.

Tinwen carried almost full term, smug until her own child was born.

~~~

The scream echoed against the marble walls, curled out into the gardens. Tinwen pushed her body up the bed, sweaty hair clinging to her face. Alphwen backed away, mouth agape as a grim midwife held the thing which had been expelled from her.

''Take it away,'' Tinwen gasped. ''It is not my fault!''

A white faced girl hastened forward with a goblet of wine, which was drained in a long swallow and thrust back at her to be refilled.  
''Get rid of it. He is cursed. _Sauron's spawn!_ He bred a monster on me.''

The silk curtains snapped aside, and the women shrank back as Vanimórë took the child from the midwife's bloody hands. She plunged to her knees. There was no sound in the room but Tinwen's heaving breaths.

Carefully, Vanimórë laid the baby upon a divan and stared at it.

He had seen many terrible things, but this was somehow more dreadful than them all. Its head was too large for its body, marred by a cleft palate and strange, flat features. One leg was twisted. There was a harelip, and although its tiny mouth opened no sound emerged. Vanimórë picked the child up, supporting the lolling skull, searched within. And something sparked there. In the crippled body, the infant mind was a star.

_Oh, dear Eru..._

He had thought that Ungoliant might somehow use a child, but there was no touch of her. Or perhaps she had rejected this as too damaged to be of use.

He strode toward the bed. Tinwen, eyes wide, drew in her breath.

''I cannot father children.'' His voice rang out like judgment. ''This child is no get of mine, and I did not care. Look at her. _ Look at her!_ There is no curse on this babe but thine own! Thou hast ruined her.''

Tinwen shook her head. "It is yours. _Your_ monster, _your_ curse!"

''Both of thee are under arrest as from this moment.''

''What for?'' Alphwen shouted. "Where are you going?"

''To arrange for thine executions,'' came the reply.

~~~

Elgalad ran up the stairs to his room, still tousled from his play with the younger children. His lawn shirt was half untucked already. He was smiling when he opened the door, but it faded as soon as he saw Vanimórë, who was holding something in his arms, his head bowed. 

"My love?"

''Tinwen's child.''

Elgalad came forward.

''She will need a wet-nurse.''

''I w-will ask Ellai.''

''I have already spoken to him. He is sending to the palace and Bree.'' Laying the swaddled child on the bed, Vanimórë unwrapped the sheets.

''They took wine and drugs. I forbade it, but when I was away they found enough servants to terrify, to bribe. Perhaps I was too lax.''

Elgalad whispered: ''Will she live?''

''I think so. Her mind is not damaged, which astonishes me. It is a... beautiful mind. I am afraid to try anything, to cause her pain. And I am no healer, death is too much a part of me.''

Elgalad touched the tiny face.  
''We will care for h-her.'' He looked at the crippled leg. Even if she lived, she would never run, never even walk.

Vanimórë turned, rested his brow against Elgalad's. ''Thou dost not feel revulsion because she is not hale and perfect?''

Elgalad's smile was tender. ''Her soul is b-beautiful.'' He leaned to kiss the little forehead. ''Can I call her Vanya?'' The question was careful. and Vanimórë's eyes closed for a moment as if a great light had shone into them. When he spoke, his voice was constricted.  
''Yes, my dear. Call her Vanya.''

~~~

Pashaar, which never slept, was quiet that day. Warriors in full armor stood at attention along the wide streets as crowds moved in a strange and anticipatory silence toward the palace.

An execution was taking place. They were not uncommon, but this must be a very special one to be held in the plaza of the palace. Few knew who was to be killed, or their crimes; even the Ambassador's from Tanith, Chey Sart, Khand and the wine-rich land of Dorwinion could not spend enough gold to unlock the tongues of the guards and servants.

Eldarion's captain rode back from speaking to an Imperial Guard, and shook his head. 

"An inauspicious day, my lord. There will be an execution at noon."

Eldarion had left Gondor soon after the birth of his youngest sister, carrying greetings from his father and the private words of the Kings concern. He had sailed to Umbar, ridden inland until the old trade route connected with the straight Imperial road.

The heat was intense, but the way-stations were frequent and Eldarion ordered that they rest from noon to evening and ride through the night. Why the Emperor had chosen to site his city upon the northern edge of the most brutal desert on Arda seemed ridiculous until one realized Pashaar, like Sud Sicanna in the south, was built on one of the great aquifers of the Mirror of Fire. Irrigated lands spread around it, softening the tawny desert. The towns and villages that clung to its skirts were prosperous.

The shadow of the north gate was long and black as the Prince passed under it. A horn blew a deep, echoing note, announcing his arrival.

They were met by ten mounted Steelguard, who silently escorted them to the palace. Even that seemed subdued, the servants mute and deft as they unpacked and brought refreshment. Eldarion bathed, waited for acknowledgment from the Emperor. On other occasions, he had been greeted with all ceremony, then lead to Vanimórë's chambers. Not this day. He was startled, therefore, to see Vanimórë coming up the steps from the private garden.

''Prince Eldarion, forgive the informality.''

There was nothing informal in Vanimórë's appearance. He wore his face-frame under the coronet, black armor and a long cloak.  
''Today, I must attend to some business.''

"'I understand," Eldarion said. "An execution, we were told?"

Vanimórë's face was enamel.  
''Yes. My laws state that rank matters nothing, that all will receive the same punishments for the same crimes.'' So calm his tone, so cold.

''Who...?'' His words were cut off by the abrupt movement of Vanimórë's gauntleted hand slamming down on the baluster. Tiny cracks burst under it.

"Choices." His eyes could have blasted granite. "Every-one _has a choice._ Melkor made a choice. My father made a choice. We all fight the beast within ourselves. Or we do not. And they did not try. They _never even tried!_ They were with child. they had a _responsibility_.''

Eldarion's eyes widened in sudden comprehension.  
''You are going to kill my sisters,'' he said. ~

~~~

 

  
Chapter End Notes:  


Nárë tauranya - my mighty flame - Q

  



	13. Execution and Seduction

~ ** Pashaar - The Empire. **

  ~ Eldarion lunged forward to come up against a form hard and unyielding as an iron wall.  
''You cannot do this.''

''Oh? Dost thou believe then, that the wealthy and high-born should be treated differently to commoners, that what the rich do is eccentric, while the a peasant would be called mad?''

'Of course not, but — ''

Vanimórë smashed his words aside.  
''They were raised with love, without the cares that weigh on most people, not even the chains of ruler-ship and responsibility. They indulged themselves and wanted more, and Ungoliant found them." The gauntleted hands gripped Eldarion's shoulders like a vise. 

"They could have fought her." His anger was wildfire in the room. "I cannot engender children. Fëanor is not truly my child. I know what a gift children are, for it is one that is denied me. And thy sisters _squandered it._ Thou didst hear of the attempt upon Elgalad's life and Fanari's death? It was thy sisters who paid the assassins!"

Eldarion's head shook in reflexive denial. "Send them home. Let my father — "

''I intended to keep them alive until they died, even after they hired the killers. I would have raised their children as my own. But there are many ways to abuse children, Prince, and neglect is one of them.'' He swung away in a swirl of raven hair and cloak.

''Tinwen's called the child my curse. A monster. I took it to Elgalad, who called her Vanya after my twin.'' There was raw pain in his voice, and Eldarion felt a surge of unexpected pity. ''Send them back? Oh, my father would _love_ that. Believe me, Elessar and the High Kingdom are too important for me to throw them back on his platter, When they came here, they became my subjects. _ My realm, my laws._''

''My father may declare war on thee for this,'' Eldarion forced out.

''Let him ride first to Annúminas and see his granddaughter,'' Vanimórë bit. ''A soul that shines like a new star in a ruined body. He would start a war — _which he will lose, Eldarion _ — because I dispensed justice?''

''His daughters...''

''So?''

''You want this,'' Eldarion accused. ''You want to prove that the House of Telcontar is nothing to you.''

''The House of Telcontar _is_ nothing to me. To the Hells with bloodlines. Let them _show_ their nobility. I have told thee: I intended to keep them here, keep Ungoliant sated and close. But I have seen too many children abused, and _I will not suffer this._'' He whirled back. ''It is how my father brought me to my knees before him, by finding children, by threatening to torture and kill them. I will deal with _him_ later. And Ungoliant.''

''You could have stopped them having the wine, the drugs...''

''Yes,'' Vanimórë agreed. ''Yes I could. I so ordered it, but I cannot be here all the time. They found servants to procure them what they wanted. They never tried to curb their lusts because they were raised to believe they deserved anything, everything they wanted. They loved no-one and nothing but themselves, they felt no grief for their ruined babes." Eldarion stared into his eyes, fascinated, frightened. Fire raged in their violet depths. "I was just a stallion who existed to service them, to give them wealth. They used fertile men to get them pregnant hoping I would make them empresses, give them more power. Bloody Hells, I thought I could bear it. Every-one, it seems has a breaking point. It ends, today.''

Eldarion leaped for him, was caught by hands like steel and forced back against the table.

''Thine own forbidden lust for thy half sister, for Anwyn?'' Vanimórë whispered. ''Didst thou not fight it? There were times when thou couldst have forced her.''

Unnatural heat seemed to radiate from the black-clad body thrust close to his, and the Prince's own flesh prickled into flame. He was shockingly, brutally aroused. And Vanimórë knew it.

''Yes, I know it.'' He pushed against the prince's groin, and Eldarion threw back his head with a startled moan. He felt teeth close delicately on his ear.

''Thou wilt return to thy father and tell him I did what a fair ruler must do. And before this day is done I will give thee what thou hast been waiting for. The clouds will break for thee.''

"I do not — " Eldarion's voice cracked.

Vanimórë smiled. "Do not what? Thou wilt desire women, wed and get children. But we two are bound, Eldarion."

What was he that he could speak of killing Eldarion's own sisters, and yet light a furnace in his loins?

With a deft move that startled him, he felt his belt and breeches unloosed. His erection jutted free — and was swallowed to the root. The pressure as he was enclosed dragged a gasp him, but even as thought vanished from his mind, Vanimórë drew away, looked up through a fringe of black lashes. The sensual, crooked smile lifted one corner of his mouth. That sultry expression from a face encased in gemmed black wire was..._unearthly, _ Eldarion thought, dazed.

''Thou needest this?'' Velvet-soft.

''Valar forgive me, yes.'' 

''They will not. But this god will,'' Vanimórë teased. ''I will give thee everything thou hast imagined. Forget thy sisters, Telcontar, thou and I, we will be close, _close_ allies. It ends with us.'' Like an uncoiling snake he came to his feet and spun away.

Eldarion leaned on his hands, taking deep breaths before hastily securing his breeches. He tipped a flood of pale wine into a cup and drank, then, face set, reached for the bell-pull and summoned Captain Duilin. There would be an unimpeded view of the execution from the front of the palace, and Eldarion had to witness this. His father would have. And Eru forgive him for lusting after the one who had passed sentence of death on his sisters.

Every noble in the city, every servant who could creep away from their duties, every citizen who could approach before the soldiers barred their way, formed an immense audience about the plaza. The heat was brutal; the sun glared like a baleful eye of condemnation. 

There was a stir then as two women were lead out, manacled about their waists over long robes of red silk. From where he stood, Eldarion thought: _ Red. Blood God. Dark God..._

Long hair straggled over their shoulders, half-hid their eyes. For a moment the Prince thought this some dreadful jest on Vanimórë's part; he did not know the women until they passed close to where he stood.

It was a punch in the stomach. What had happened to them? But he knew...He knew. Only what had been happening since they were born, their every whim pandered to, believing themselves special, superior by dint of their blood. Elven princesses. There had been rumours of maids slapped and beaten, young soldiers and servants importuned. Beautiful though they were, their natures showed through the line of bone, the bloom of skin. He remembered the shrill demands of two flouncing children, little fingers pinching, his mother's indulgence and laughter. _Flowers of Gondor_. The path that lead his sisters' here could be laid directly at the queen's feet. 

Beside him, Duilin made a sound of shock. Eldarion seized his arm, stared warning into the captain's eyes.

''You will do nothing,'' he said. ''I know why they are condemned. Under Imperial law, station matters nothing. As it should not.'' He swallowed a sour taste, forced himself to watch.

The women were halted in the middle of the plaza. Their voices rose, the same stridency Eldarion remembered of old that had grated on his ears then and now. Their guards stood unmoving as they tugged at the chains, swearing. A sussuration of sound rose from the crowd, who fell into stone-quiet as the Emperor appeared.

He had no escort and needed none. He walked like a god; he walked as if he owned Middle-earth, and the crowds went down in obeisance as he crossed the black and white marble to stand before the women. He said something in a low voice to the guards, who unlocked themselves from the women marched into the ranks.

Finding themselves free the sisters surged toward Vanimórë. Whatever he did brought them up short, mouths wide. Revulsion, not unmixed with pity, edged into Eldarion's thundering heart. He felt sick. Duilin was cursing under his breath. 

"By the laws of the Imperium, thou art guilty of murder and of abuse." Vanimórë's voice was steel and ice. "Wilt thou now admit thy wrongdoing? There is no appeal, but I can make the manner of thy deaths easier."

They stared at him, lips slack, nostrils flaring, their colour high and hectic.

"Death?" Tinwen's spoke like sloughing gravel. "_You cursed us!_

She raised her head, peered around the vast, motionless crowd, and shouted: "He cursed the babes in out bellies." Her finger stabbed out. "Him!"

"I cannot father children," his voice carried without effort. 

Tinwen's face creased. "You think we are stupid? What about Fëanor?" Suddenly her voice rose, and she screamed at him: "How dare _you_ judge us, Sauron's bastard. You have no right. _No right!_"

"You admit to your crime, then?"

Alphwen lunged toward him, stamped one foot. "You cannot touch us. Our father would bring down an army on you. You dare not touch _us!_"

He said, "I will not."

He turned to the crowd.  
"These women, my wives," No-one could fail to hear the distaste in the last two words, "poisoned the children in their wombs with drugs and with wine. They hired assassins to kill one whom I love. He lives, but another died. People of Pashaar, what is the penalty for these crimes?"

"Death!" A voice cried, and it was taken up by the crowd until the sound surged like a storm against the palace. Eldarion flinched, forced himself to stand, head raised. He could not look at his sisters, now clinging to each other. He stared over their heads. 

Vanimórë raised a hand. The noise ceased uncannily fast. Warriors left their places, marched onto the plaza. They formed ranks six deep behind Vanimórë. Who said to the women: "Only tell me thou art sorry." Eldarion wondered for a long time after what would have happened had they shown contrition, even enacted it. From his elevation he could see their faces, saw them twist into spite.   
  
"You don't dare." Alphwen spat toward him. "Arse-fucker." She threw back her head, yelled: "He fucks other men up the arse, people of Pashaar. I hope you know that. What real man does that?" Shaking back her hair, she sneered at Vanimórë. "You are dead, bastard. You should have given up your stammering bitch. Our father will kill you if you pluck a single hair from our heads." She folded her arms, smug, and still, even now it seemed neither she nor her sister were willing to believe they would die. She looked up, and it was then she saw Eldarion. He did not know why he had gone unnoticed before, save that the frontage of the palace was filled with a breathless crowd of dignitaries. She screamed his name. Tinwen joined her.  
  
"Brother, brother. _avenge our honour!_ Kill him.   
  
Under the weight of so many eyes, Eldarion's face was hot as fire. He could hardly breathe. And what distressed him in all of this was that he was embarrassed by his sisters. He shook his head. Vanimórë waited a heartbeat then said, "People of Pashaar. I leave these women to thy judgement." He turned, walked through the ranks of soldiers, who locked into place behind him, and as if on a signal, the waiting crowd poured into the plaza. Their quarry began to run.   
Eldarion made himself witness

The guards lining the palace steps brought their fists to their breastplates, plumes lowering as Vanimórë swept by, pausing only when his gaze fell upon Eldarion. The look which traveled lazily from the prince's head his heels to his head was like the intimate brush of flame. There might have been no mob tearing his sisters apart.

''Now, some refreshment, I think?'' He gestured gracefully with his hand. Eldarion remained rooted in disbelief. The sandalwood fragrance lingered long after Vanimórë had gone, after the soldiers had enclosed the mob, and broke them apart. Vanimórë had even planned for that, knowing that the blood-lust would spill over into a riot. 

In his chambers, Vanimórë went down on his knees.   
_This is where I begin to fall. A vow that was more than a vow, that was inscribed on my soul. I would never ill-treat a woman, never cause harm to one, never lay a hand on one in anger. And I kept the letter of that vow. I did not touch them. _ He stared into the past, into the face of his sister.  
_Foolish things, vows. I did not want them to repent. I wanted them to die. They were acid on my soul. They disgusted me. Ungoliant was in them before she ever found them. I judged them unfit to live in the same world as me. And so, with them, I fall._

~~~

Eldarion woke from sleep, head aching with the aftermath of wine. There was a faint glimmer of gray at the long windows which heralded dawn. He sat up, reached for the goblet of water beside the bed, and drank deep.

''You heard the Emperor,'' he had said to Duilin and his people, starkly. "They were murderers."

Duilin was green-sick.  
''The King will not let this go unanswered, my Lord. These were his daughters, of the blood-royal.''

''There are no distinctions made between royal and common blood in Imperial law,'' Eldarion responded roughly. ''Now leave me, I must send the swiftest messenger to my father.''

Again and again his mind relived the execution, until he himself was sick. Clammy sweat stood on his brow, ran down his spine. Yet he felt no grief.  
His parents had commented that he spent too little time with his younger sisters. He had made excuses. The truth was they had not confined their flirtations to other nobles or servants. In the latter years they had had tried to bed him also. 

He wondered with revulsion if there was indeed some curse on his father's House through Isildur. Or was it simply that his sisters' rapacious natures demanded more and more? Vanimórë could have curtailed them. He would have had to virtually imprison them, true, but he had not. There was a vein of ice in him. 

Eldarion lay back, closed his eyes. What could he write to his father? Could they avoid war?

''Elessar is no fool.''

He froze as the sheet was drawn away. Vanimórë straddled him. His white face was framed by the loose hair that flooded over Eldarion's groin.

''No. That was bestial.'' 

''It was just. But I suppose all they will remember are tales of a Blood God, a _ Dark God. _ So be it.'' He ran a hand up Eldarion's chest. ''I promised thee pleasure.''

''You think I am in the mood after that?''

''Especially after that.'' Vanimórë's head lowered. His tongue traced Eldarion's full lower lip. A wave of hunger swept over the prince, and he plunged into the offered kiss. His back arched. He gasped as a slender finger, slick with oil penetrated his passage. It was a monstrous invasion. 

''Relax.'' The voice melted over him, thrumming through his blood. He panted, willed his body to obey his instinctive cringing.

He was a warrior, an envoy, a prince. He had seen battle, knew diplomacy, experienced lust at times with willing courtesans. But now he both wanted and feared. He had seen Vanimórë naked, in the great baths, knew just how magnificent all of him was. There was shame, too. Oh, one knew this happened but many denied it, alluded to the Elves, who practiced it openly in Lindon, as unnatural.  
And then, as Vanimórë entered him again, rubbed against him, Eldarion cried out in astonished, unbelieving pleasure.

''Good.'' Again he stroked until the prince was groaning, tossing as he sought to bring his erection into contact with Vanimórë's body.

''Let me take thee all the way...''

"Yes," Eldarion gasped.

_ And I will bind thee to me, and we will bestride the world before Nightfall comes._  
He sheathed his length in one deep stroke. Eldarion's shouted again, and then his cries changed pitch. There was pain yes, but where it ended ecstasy began. When he came to release, he swore, clutching at Vanimórë's arms as he spilled his own seed.

''Now," Vanimórë said, smiling down on him. "To other matters. Thou wilt tell thy father that their deaths were justified, and avoid a very bloody war, wilt thou not?''

And it was then Eldarion realized he _would _ do anything for this dangerous, erotic dark god.

How fortunate, thought Vanimórë, that his own motives were pure. He was no Sauron and Eldarion no Ar-Pharazôn.  
Yet it was poetic.

Through the spirals of black hair, purple eyes glowed like colored lamps before the black lashes swept down to hide them. ~

~~~


	14. Echoes of Times Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contains a Gil-galad/Tindómion flashback.

~ **Lindon**

 

~ ''I am glad they are dead,'' Tindómion said when Fëanor came to him. 

''As am I. '' His half-brother was fierce in grief. ''And I feel no guilt for it.'' He sought the comfort of Tindómion's arms, which locked about him. ''I will miss her always, always.'' He began to weep.

''And so will I,'' Tindómion whispered. ''Always.''

  
~~~

''Istelion?'' The chamber had darkened, but no lamps were lit. Tindómion sat looking into the lavender twilight.

''Sire?''

''Talk to me,'' Gil-galad commanded.

''What wouldst thou have me say?" Tindómion asked. "Vanimórë dispensed Imperial justice, and they are dead. But their deaths will not return my mother to us.''

"_Nárya._" Gil-galad laid a hand on his shoulder. "No. It does not bring her back. But she may come back to us."   
  
Tindómion looked up sharply.  
"Valinor has been closed to us since the resurrection," he said. "Perhaps no-one can now come back."   
  
"The Valar could not prevent any-one leaving," Gil-galad's fingers tightened. "What does Glorfindel say?"   
  
"That Mandos is no longer gaoler of the Halls of Waiting, the judge of souls. But Glorfindel has not been there. He said he would know if she wanted to come." He rose restlessly. "The Halls of Waiting were supposed to be a time of peace, reflection. It is possible my mother may want that. Eru knows I gave her no peace. I loved her, but I was selfish. I worried her. All my life she worried for me." He pulled away, went to the window.   
  
Gil-galad watched him, a darker shadow against the dusk, wide shoulders framed by the white stone of the window.   
"She spoke to me before she left for Annúminas. She said that thou didst offer to go with her, and that she refused, that it was just an excuse to leave me, as thou didst before. But it was not, was it?" The game had changed since Vanimórë. Because he was not one of the Noldor, he had thrown a stone into the pool, and unsettled the waters. The ripples had not died.   
  
"No. I was, and am worried about Elgalad."   
  
After seeing him briefly in New Cuiviénen, and now here, Gil-galad could understand that. He moved alongside Tindómion.   
"I can see why."   
  
"My mother told me stories when I was a child. _Faerie stories_. One of them was that Yavannah had made one flower that bloomed once every age, and then died. Elgalad reminds me of that."  
  
"What is Vanimórë doing to him?" Gil-galad wondered.   
  
"Loving him." Tindómion turned his head. "I think. Just that." 

"It is a hard love then."  
  
He saw the quirk of Tindómion's mouth.   
"All loves are hard," he said.   
And Gil-galad remembered... 

~~~

**Lindon - Year 2 - Second Age **

_Aeglos. _ Snow point. The Spear of Gil-galad. The light fell full upon it as it rested in its leather straps against the wall. The room held the High King's armor and weapons, the banners which would be carried into war, if war came again.

It was ten days since Tindómion had sworn fealty to Gil-galad. It was _Rhîw,_ a mild season so far, with early frosts and still, sunny days, gold in the muted shades of winter.

There was a time for a while, when the last of last of the High Elven Kings ruled, and before Sauron returned, when many believed that the glory of the Eldar would flourish forever. In that time Ost-in-Edhil would be founded, and in Lindon white villa's and palaces would be raised with towers like needles of stone where banners flew and music rose to the stars.

Before the Three Rings were forged. Before Eregion was ravaged and Eriador lost. Before the Last Alliance.

Elrond had met Tindómion that morning; Elrond Eärendilion, one of the few who did not look askance ar the ill-gotten son of Maglor. He and his brother had been hostages of Maglor and Maedhros, yet had been loved and treated as sons. Elrond had begun to speak of it, thinking Tindómion would wish to know of his father. But then he had seen the turmoil in the silver eyes and realized that Tindómion's feelings were a storm of contradictions: love, hate, the desire for revenge, longing.

"I do not wish to hear of him...not now. Forgive me, I know thou hast lost both thy parents and I am beyond glad that thou wert well treated by my...but of thy courtesy, Elrond, I do not wish to hear of him.''

''He does not wish to know anything,'' Elrond had said to the king. ''And yet, in his heart, he hungers to. He is afraid to lose his hate. He would feel it a disloyalty to his mother.''

''Who forgives Maglor, or she would not have lived. He will come to ask us in time. He is like a young stallion who will bolt at any strange noise, and he still tries to find his place here. He needs time. I have my own tender memories of Maglor and Maedhros, as thou dost. Yes, they committed crimes but they paid for them in full measure.'' Gil-galad's face held sadness. ''I wish to find Maglor if he lives. If only I could have found Maedhros before despair took him! ''

Some days later, Gil-galad's newest knight-companion was given the duty of maintaining his armor, a coveted position which showed clearer than any word that Tindómion was highly favored.

There were three suits of armor upon stands, swords, daggers, shields and here, _Aeglos,_ the spear, a lethal thorn of ice.

Tindómion did not approach the spear until he had methodically oiled and polished the rest of the gear. The sun had shifted, but still Aeglos glittered. He had never seen the high king throw it, but had watched him hurl spears in training, his height and strength sending the long shaft with deadly accuracy. Tindómion knew he also bore a great-sword also, _Helegon,_ whose edge burned as silver-blue as his eyes.

Slowly, he reached out a hand toward the gleaming thing, it was smooth and cool under his skin.

''My father gave it to me.'' Another hand joined his, curled around it, so that Tindómion's fingers reflexively gripped the spear's shaft. Gil-galad's touch was warm and strong. Under it, the Fëanorion tensed.

''Lift it.''

He drew back and Tindómion slowly drew _Aeglos_ from its straps. It was lighter than he had expected. As he raised it, he saluted, and it was to the memory of Fingon the Valiant as much as to Gil-galad.

''He gave it to me just before he sent me south to the Haven's, after the Dagor Bragollach,'' the king continued. ''He did not use a spear in battle, but this was his own father's, Fingolfin's, fashioned in Tirion when the Noldor were first making weapons. He said I would not be able to throw it until I was full grown, that I would master it then.'' Half of his face was flawless white in the light, the other shadowed. ''I treasure it. I swore that I would become proficient in its use and make him proud.''

Dust motes danced and dazzled between them. They seemed to cling to the thick fringe of Gil-galad's black lashes, and Tindómion took a breath, saying, softly: ''I am sorry, Sire.''

''I loved my father. Yet thou wilt find some,'' the last word was edged. ''Speak as if his death were a punishment meted out by the Valar.''

''Punishment? for what, Sire?''

''For unnatural acts.'' Gil-galad turned away. ''I _loved_ my father.''

''Unnatural acts? '' The butt of the spear thudded gently upon the marble floor as Tindómion let it slip down to rest. The king looked over one wide shoulder.

''It does not matter, I am sure thou wilt hear the whispers soon enough. I am surprised thou hast not, but Fanari was wise to raise thee apart from the court.''

Deliberately obtuse, Tindómion had been that day, for he had already heard some of the whispers. Later he had gone to his mother and spoken to her and it was soon after that she had revealed to the King what she knew of Fingon and Maedhros.

Gil-galad had been very young, a few years before his fiftieth begetting day, when his sire had sent him from Hithlum after taking the Kingship of the Noldor. He had been acclaimed high king in Nan Tathren, the Land of Willows, when news had come of Turgon's death in the ruin of Gondolin, and had after lived on the Isle of Balar. He had not been at the sack of the Havens, where Tindómion has been engendered. That assault had come without warning and he and Círdans folk had arrived too late.

There had been a feast the night before, and though there was music, no-one had played any lays of Gondolin, nor of Fingon or Fingolfin, or the battles in Beleriand. The High King's mother, Rosriel, bade Tindómion sing the Lay of Leithian. He played exquisitely, and the Great Hall was silent in the sorrow and enchantment wrought by his voice. When after, Fanari quietly asked her son if he might sing of Gondolin, a ripple of silence spread out from her words, and Rosriel declared that neither Gondolin nor its warriors were celebrated in song here.

Tindómion had been puzzled, then angry and it was only a glance from the king, like a finger on his lips, that quietened him. In the morning as he returned from a ride with his mother, Gil-galad beckoned them from a doorway. Taking their arms he lead then into a quiet chamber hung in blue's and reds. A sweet smelling fire burned and underfoot the marble was warm from the hypocausts. It was a private chamber looking out onto a walled garth, where the graceful, leafless shapes of apple and pear trees rose from grass silvered by a fading frost.

''My friends.'' Gil-galad handed out cups of steaming wine and and thanking him, they sipped. Cinnamon and ginger scented the air, rising from the silver pot.

''Thou wert angered when my mother said that lays of Gondolin were not sung here?'' He looked straightly at both of them. ''There are many whom do not wish to hear them, or rather hear _of_ those whose names are renowned.''

''Sire,'' Fanari said, ''if such lays are not to be sung of here – although such valor should never be forgotten, and where else should they be sung? – why did they not sing either, of thy father and his, who are likewise worthy of remembrance in song?''

The star-blue eyes flashed at that.  
''My lady, they are, as are the lords of Gondolin, but,'' he paused and the woman and her son remained silent, though Fanari's brows rose a little as she saw the flags of color on his cheekbones. His profile as he faced the long window drew a soft exclamation from her.  
''Thou art so very like him, Sire.''

''And thy son is the image of his father, save for that bronze hair,'' Gil-galad said with a smile at Tindómion. "I knew not that thou didst know my father, lady. In Vinyamar, was it?"

''Yes, Sire. I saw some of the sons of Fëanor there also, a handful of times.''

''Not all were laudable, they or their acts," Gil-galad said. "And they were mad in the end. Yet I remember seeing them smile.'' He still gazed at Tindomion, whose face was shuttered.

''Sire,'' Fanari murmured, ''I forgave Maglor and Maedhros. Yes, they were mad when they took Arvenien. Maedhros and thy father were very close. When Fingon died I am sure that it...deeply grieved him.''

The king bent his head.  
''Thou art spoken of as having been close in friendship to Glorfindel.'' He saw the pain in her eyes. ''And thou didst always know he and Ecthelion were...lovers, and didst not find that unclean?''

''Unclean?'' She said sharply. ''No. If thou dost think it so, forgive me. They were friends and yes, and lovers too but, unclean? No!''

"Lady," he reached out a hand. ''Thou didst speak to my father. Didst thou ever have cause to believe that he was closer to Prince Maedhros than kinsman?''

Another small silence fell. Tindomion stared at his mother as she said, slowly, ''Why wouldst thou ask me this, Sire?''

''I loved Maedhros. When my father was with him, they both _shone._ I saw things as a child that I did not understand, not then, but my father was only truly _alive_ when we visited his cousin or Maedhros came to Hithlum. So few times. Too few. I used to wish... that Maedhros were also my father. A strange fancy for a child, thou may rightly say.''

"Glorfindel and Ecthelion spoke of things when I was near, perhaps they trusted me to understand and not to say anything." Fanari's eyes looked back into memory. "And when I was a child at Mereth Aderthad, I saw thy father and Prince Maedhros walking together. It was a shining love.''

''Oh, Eru, _I was right!_'' The King took a swift drink of hot wine, and the color from it seemed to spread into his cheeks. ''I wish I had known! Thou may wonder how Maedhros could be kind, when he watched Maglor violate thee, but he was different then, he blazed indeed, he and my father. They lit up the air about them.''

''I saw it,'' she agreed. ''It is why I forgave Maedhros.'' She laid a hand on her son's arm. ''He had lost his heart, yet the oath held him for years after thy father's death. How could he care for anything after that?'' Her voice broke; for Maedhros, for those she had so dearly loved who were gone; for Fingon, for Maglor, for Gil-galad, losing his father so young. Tindómion drew her into his arms and rested his chin on her hair.

''Wilt thou tell me?'' the King asked. ''Everything thou didst see, everything?''

''Gladly,'' she said. ''But I know little and did not see much. Glorfindel and Ecthelion were friends to thy father. I wish there were those alive now who could tell thee more.''

Gil-galad glanced at the water clock. '' I must meet with my lords, perhaps after the feast tonight?''

''Of course,'' she smiled. ''There are things that are too bright to be hidden.''

''Father called him _Nárë fëanya._ I was too young to understand.''

''_ Flame of my soul._ '' Fanari echoed.

''Thy cursed father was my husband!'' The harsh interruption brought Fanari and her son around to see Rosriel. She had entered through the long, glazed windows silently and stood in a magnificence of diamonds and silver-white. She was beautiful, but vitriol spilled from her like etching acid.

Gil-galad's face closed as if it were a book which was slammed shut.  
"Lady mother.''

''This friend of that unholy pair of Gondolin will tell thee all lies, making something evil into something good! Fingon was mine! Thou art my son and High King and thou wilt listen to me or be damned as thy sire was damned in the Dagor Nirnaeth, slain because of his filthy, _unnatural_...''

''Be silent.'' The King's voice was soft, yet held an edge like a blade. ''Thou art my mother, not my counselor, and not my queen, and thou wilt be silent on this matter.''

Rosriel's face worked and her burning eyes flicked to Fanari.  
''Stay away from my son or thou wilt find me a very bad enemy! If I exile thee, there is nowhere thou canst go save over the sea, if they would accept thee, or across the distant mountains to the lands where the rustic Silvans dwell.''

"Cease! Thou dost make threats to my guests?" Gil-galad demanded. "Thou hast no power to exile my subjects! Come, lady." He turned from Rosriel and took Fanari's arm, his eyes meeting Tindomion's angry ones in warning.

Fanari said carefully, ''Sire, I would be honored to speak with thee, perhaps in my son's chambers. He knows of Gondolin, for I have told him all, and he could play to us.'' Her glance at the Queen-mother was as challenging as a hurled gauntlet.

Blood suffused Rosriel's cheeks. ''Thy father did _not_ love Maedhros Fëanorion. He and his brothers' befouled our wedding with their presence, called my husband away when his duties lay with me! Thou wilt get nothing from this relict of Gondolin but lies!''

The door slammed on her last words as Gil-galad closed it decisively in her face.

''I am sorry,'' he apologized. "My parents marriage was not a happy one."

~~~

''Yes, Maedhros and Fingon were lovers.''

Tindomion met his mother's eyes. His heart was beating oddly in his throat.

''I had always believed it the love of kinship,'' he said uncomfortably. ''But it perhaps does not surprise me. ''

''I cannot blame Rosriel," Fanari murmured. "I was imagining how it might have been for me, had I wed thy father and he had loved another, as I believe he did. Deep love can become deeper hate.''

''I heard no love in her voice.'' Her son went to the harp and sat down as they waited for the arrival of Gil-galad.

~~~

In formal robes, a circlet holding back his hair, the High King entered the room and inclined his head. Tindomion came and took his cloak, and Gil-galad slanted a smile at him as he sat, accepting wine. His eyes held and expression of anticipation, of hope which made him seem youthful, and indeed how very young he had been when he last saw his father, Fanari thought.

Tindomion played quietly. The soft sound blended into the whisper of the firelight as his mother spoke, her voice deepening with memories which seemed to be drawn out of the flames, become painted by them to show bright, beautiful images of a time long lost.

''My begetting day...Turgon had gone on a long journey with Finrod, and that was when he dreamed of where Gondolin would be built....Glorfindel and Ecthelion greeted thy father in his stead...''

''....proud and princely he was and I was honored he should attend my feast....yet I saw how he looked other-where, and how he observed my friends. Ecthelion and Glorfindel did not hide the fact they were friends and lovers, but thy sire and Prince Maedhros were both the first heirs of two great princely Houses. They were expected to wed...''

''From certain remarks Glorfindel had spoken in my presence I had guessed that Fingon and Maedhros were lovers. But it was something I saw thirty years before which had first shown me. I was but a child and like thyself I saw it simply as something beautiful. At Mereth Aderthad I watched them walking in the dusk, with Prince Maedhros hair glowing, and their arms were around one another and they kissed and then parted... ''

''In the years after until we removed to Gondolin, when he visited Turgon he spoke to me, at times. He lit up like the sun through cloud. I think it was a great joy to him to converse with those whom considered his love right and fine. For many called the Fëanorions accursed because of their oath and even in the Long Peace spoke against them, concerned what the future would bring.''

''My father would never have given his love unworthily,'' The fire leaped as if in answer to the passion in Gil-galad's words and his eyes burned like blue shields. Tindomion's hair turned to beaten copper in the light as he lifted his head, gazing at the high king.

''I was a child when I first saw Maedhros. My father rode out one day in spring, taking me with him and we met with Maedhros, Maglor and Caranthir.'' The king's eyes lifted to Tindómion. "I loved Maedhros at once, perhaps because I sensed my father did."

The memories held such pain...

''We spent days with them sleeping under the stars, I wanted Maedhros to stay with us forever because he made my father so happy and was kind to me, as were Maglor and Caranthir. They loved him also. Maglor was gentle, Tindomion, his voice like molten gold. I did not wish to return to the palace.''

Now they came to the difficult part. Fanari said diplomatically, "I think, sire, that that no marriage thy father made for thee would have been happy. It must be said, it could not have been easy for thy mother, either.''

''Maedhros named me Gil-galad,'' the high king murmured. ''And how my mother hated that name.'' He said the word _ mother_ as if it were strange and bitter in his mouth. "Even now, she will only call me Ereinion. So much hatred, and it has never faded.'' His sleek brows drew together in remembered pain. ''Even when we learned my father had died. And I needed no telling. I felt him die.''

The fire keened softly as pitch burned. It was the only sound in that chamber. Tindomion's hands had stilled on the harp strings and the silence filled with sorrow, and a strange peace. The Fëanorion guessed that for Gil-galad to speak of this was both joy and pain.

''Sire, '' his voice was very quiet. ''I believe as my mother believes, that love is a gift of the One to his Children. It cannot be chosen, it cannot be relinquished. One does not choose to love, or not to love. The Laws of the Eldar are harsh if they do recognize this.'' He sensed his mother nod. ''There are many ways to love. None are a matter of...choice. It would be so very much easier if they were.''

''Yes,'' Gil-galad whispered. ''Would it not be?''

Rosriel opened the door without knocking, stepping in like a queen, a queen whom night go where she pleased, do as she wished. Since even the mightiest kings of the Eldar would rise to greet a guest, be they never so humble, this unheralded intrusion was the height of discourtesy.

''I told thee to stay away from my son.'' Her voice was cold and thick. ''And I told _thee,_ Ereinion, that thou wouldst listen to me! What hast thou told him?'' She advanced on Fanari who stood motionless. An expression she had cultivated against Maeglin in Gondolin glazed her face to haughtier. She did not reply.

''What didst thou tell him?'' Rosriel demanded and her hand rose in a swift move to lash across Fanari's face.

It was caught in a grip of steel. ''No.'' Tindómion put himself between them.

''She will fill thine ears with lies, she is as unnatural as thy cursed sire! The only natural thing _he_ did in his life was beget thee on me!'' Rosriel hissed. ''If that damned son of Fëanor had not tempted him back again and again he would have been a true husband to me. he was weak ! Release me, damned..._Fëanorion!_''

''Do not say such a thing!'' Fanari's exclaimed. ''King Fingon died in battle and he fought until his arms were pinned to his sides! It was witnessed by the great Eagles. He drove back Glaurung to Angband with archers on horseback. He rescued Maedhros from torment on Thangorodrim...''

''And _that _ name will never be spoken here! Never! All that line are cursed, and thou..!'' Rosriel seethed at Tindómion, whose face bore the arrogant stamp of his sire's bloodline as if hammered from one metal, ''Thou dost carry that curse also. What didst thou do, Fanari? Lie down and spread thy legs and _beg_ his father to take thee?''

Gil-galad's face went white, as did Tindómion's; the pure ice-white of fury.  
''I will not listen to thee traduce those I love, lady! Nor those whom serve me and are my guest-friends!'' He guided her toward the door. ''Never insult my father, or my guests or I shall have thee exiled!''

"Thy father shamed me and now thou wouldst do the same and cozen those whom only tell thee lies," Rosriel cried. "It was Maedhros Fëanarion who caused thy sire to fall into sin and madness! And my damned husband was too weak to resist him! that was why he died, weakness! Listen to me! I will give thee wise counsel and there are others who will! Send forth these two before the curse of the House of Finwë comes down upon our realm.'' Her eyes spat anger at Tindómion.

''Leave us!'' Gil-galad opened the door and deposited Rosriel outside, closing it upon her. His head bowed for a moment, his breath coming hard.

"My lord," Fanari said carefully. "Jealousy eats at her. Jealousy is oft the father to hate.''

''No,'' the king said quietly. "She simply hates. She did not weep for him.'' He remembered the dreadful feeling of _ knowing _ Fingon was dead, the pain, the grief, his mothers swift slap to bring him to himself.

"It is not my right to judge,'' Fanari said. ''I understood Maeglin's treachery, born of a love which was never reciprocated. Sire, do not feel compelled to step between thy mother and I.''

''Thou art a guest and thy son my knight and I hope, friend.'' Gil-galad was stern now. ''She shall not miscall thee. Nay, nor my father or Prince Maedhros or his line, not in my hearing!''

"Nor in mine," Tindómion said unexpectedly, feeling that he might desire to bring his father to justice, but no-one else would abuse his name. He thought he saw the flicker of a smile in his mother's eyes as she went to the door.

''Thou didst know thy mother would know these things,'' Gil-galad stated, when she had gone.

''She has always spoken openly to me, Sire.'' A bloom of colour warmed the whiteness of Tindómion's cheeks. ''Not of thy sire, but of Glorfindel and Ecthelion. But I have heard the whispers from some, of a curse on those men who desired one another against the Laws of the Eldar.''

''Dost thou believe that?''

''There may be a curse on the line of Finwë.'' Maglor's son ran his fingers over the sweeping curve of the harp-wood. ''But surely not for loving? That would be so...wrong.''

''Thou dost touch thy harp as he touched his.'' The words brought that arrogant Fëanorion head up, a faint crease between the dark brows. ''Like a lover,'' Gil-galad said.

Tindómion drew his hand away from the instrument almost as if his flesh had been scorched. ''I am not my father,'' he stated emphatically.

''And yet thou art the living image of him.''

''Did he...love another man?'' Tindómion asked, stumbling slightly over the words and flushing more deeply.

''I never heard so, nor saw anything that would lead me to believe it,'' the king replied. ''Wouldst thou hate him if that were so, then?''

''I would save my hate for something more worthy, such as rape!'' Tindómion replied swiftly. ''But I would not see greater shame brought on my mother by vicious tongues, or by the imputation that I...''

''She would not be ashamed. She is not of that ilk.''

Tindómion looked away. ''I should wed,'' he said as if spurred by his thoughts. ''But who would take one of a cursed line and get of a rape?''

''I do not see a curse when I look on thee, my friend,'' Gil-galad said, and into the quiet rustle of fire he murmured: ''_Nárya._''

~~~

''Didst thou love me then?'' Gil-galad asked.

''When I walked into the great hall in Lindon to pledge my service to thee, I loved thee. And thou knowest it.'' Tindómion's eyes were hot and bright as molten lead in the dark.

"I like to hear thee say it." Gil-galad leaned forward, smiling a challenge. "And had there been no damnable Laws, what wouldst thou have done there, _Nárya?_ Show me!" ~  


Chapter End Notes:  
Rhîw - Winter; [ Sindarin ] 72 days between modern 1 December and 10 February.  
The reason for these flashbacks are that although Gil-galad and Tindómion's story, as well as Maedhros and Fingon's before them, is told in Magnificat of the Damned I: Starfall, it is a Silmfic and many people don't bother to read Silmfic on a LOTR archive, thus they are inserted in the Dark Prince series in a shorter version.  



	15. The Kindling of Starlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second Age flashback

  
**Lindon: Second Age.**

Tindómion was incensed when he learned that she had gone to the high King on his behalf. He felt it made him seem cowardly, and determined not to like Gil-galad, to give him only grudging service.   
He was also embarrassed. He had all the pride of his bloodline, and if he needs must go before the High King he desired to be accoutered as fine as a Lord. He wondered if his mother would understand that he had no armor against his name and its shame but what he could clothe himself with.  
  
"I cannot present myself to the High King as I would, mother." His anger was colored all through with embarrassment. "We live here by the goodwill of Lord Círdan, and he has been most gracious, but to go before Gil-galad I must have armor, garments, weapons, horses, and we..."  
  
Fanari nodded. ''This is not Gondolin, my dear. If thou wert Lord of the Pillar and the Tower of Snow thou wouldst go before Gil-galad with a thousand knights.''  
  
They were not poor. Few Elves would see another lack for anything, but Penlod had been one of the Lords of Gondolin, his House stupendously wealthy, and those riches lay burned and buried by the sigh of the sea.  
  
''Yet a prince thou art, of the greatest and proudest House of the Noldor, and I will not see thee indigent.'' Her eyes moved beyond him. ''It was _Tarnin Austa._ Colored lights were in the trees and silver lanterns in the streets. Music everywhere, and all were arrayed for festival.'' There was an expression on her face which brought sorrow welling up within Tindómion. She held out her hand. ''Come with me.''  
  
She lead him up the stairs into her bedchamber, and took a small key from where it hung at her girdle. Picking up a casket of pale wood she unlocked it and turned back the lid. Tindómion was familiar with it from childhood but he had never seen her open it.  
  
''There were other things. A diadem, which was lost, a girdle also. But the clasps on these did not break or open. I offered them to Círdan, but he said I should keep them. For this time, I think.''  
  
She lifted out a great collar in the colors of her house. Like lace-work it was, and on each link was a flower of diamond and emerald. So cunningly was it wrought that it would drape the throat, shoulders and back like a cloak, and long lappets hung to the feet. It flashed and sparkled in the pale light and sang softly as water running over stone. Each gem was minutely faceted, and the flight from Gondolin, the struggle in the wilderness, had not marred its beauty.  
  
''It _was_ damaged.'' His mother seemed to read his thoughts. ''Gold is soft, after all, though the jewels are not. Here and here, I think.'' She pointed. ''Círdan took it to a jewel-smith, and it was mended.''  
  
Laying it on the bed, she opened a leather pouch and drew out two bracelets which would clasp the forearms. They were like to a warrior's vambraces and reached almost to the elbow but their beauty was designed for a woman: twining, exuberant flower patterns, the stones as brilliant as those of the collar.  
  
''I will have Círdan take them to a Goldsmith. The stones are very fine.''  
  
''No, mother!'' Tindómion's was indignant and mortified. ''They are all that remain of Gondolin. I would rather go before the High King in rags !''  
  
"Well so would I _not,_" his mother retorted. "I have memories which are worth more than gold. Thou shalt stand before Gil-galad as a Fëanorion, a Prince of the Noldor!"  
  
He turned his face away and a muscle in his jaw clenched. She carefully wrapped the jewelry and laid it back in the chest.  
  
  
***  
  
  
''This was unnecessary, Fanari,'' Círdan told her. ''I would have seen him mounted and shod.''  
  
''I know, my friend,'' she replied. ''But it seems fitting that they be used for this. My father would have wished it - and the glorious dead.''  
  
~~~  
  
''And this banner?'' Tindómion demanded. ''Why not thine own house? Why this?''  
He gestured at the long pennon that streamed across the floor, threads of gold and silver worked in it by the skilled fingers of his mother and her hand-maid. Its colors were a rich poppy-red and speedwell blue, the embroidery silver and gold. Fiery flowers dotted the back-cloth and set among them were harps, each with three clear crystals down their strings.   
  
''I made one like this in Gondolin long ago, a great tapestry,'' she replied. ''I did not know why then, but it was a presentiment of the banner Maglor's son would bear.''  
  
Her son turned away, leaned his brow against the cool stone.  
''I will not dispute with thee," he said. "There is no time. I am sorry. It is beautiful, I just...cannot _understand_ thee, mother.''  
  
''Thou wilt, one day,'' she smiled. 'Come then, let us prepare thee.''  
  
~~~  
  
When she watched him ride away, she quivered as like a harp-string, her hands clasping her throat. He carried more than he knew, and none of it in his accouterments. What he bore was beyond price. In him, the House of Fëanor came out of the hissing shadows and burned again.  
  
_And it will never die,_ she thought.  
~~~  
  
  
Tindómion had no esquire to lead a spare horse or tend to his gear, none who owned him lordship, no knights to bring to the service of the high king, only himself. The Great Hall seemed very full of people as he heard the herald announce him. Taking a deep breath, he strode forward.  
  
He was richly dressed, but wore no jewel save a brooch on which glittered the silver emblem of a harp laid across the flaming flower of the House of Fëanor. It caught the infalling sunlight in flashes of ruby and diamond, and the low murmurs of conversation, the soft playing of music faded. The high king turned.  
  
Tindómion had seen Gil-galad only once. He had been very young. Now he stared.  
  
A river of obsidian hair fell heavily to Gil-galad's thighs, drawn back in triple braiding and wound with gold thread. He was very tall, wide shouldered and long legged in deep blue and silver. He looked what he was: the high king, son of Fingon the Valiant, grandson of Fingolfin. Under gull-wing brows that followed the bone above his eyes, the eyes themselves were blue-white as Helluin dazzling in a midwinter sky.  
  
''Tindómion Maglorion.'' The clear voice spoke into a pregnant silence, and the murmurs which arose were instantly quashed by a brief, flashing glance. Tindómion felt the burn of heat in his cheeks as he went down on one knee.  
''I knew thy father," Gil-galad said. "And I grieve for him.''  
  
Looking up, Tindómion saw sadness in the luminous face, Without consulting his chagrin, his embarrassment or his pride, he spoke impulsively, the first words that formed on his lips.  
''Sire, I would offer thee my fealty, my sword, my body, and all my service.''  
  
The weight of the stares upon him became heavier, but he found himself held by the King's gaze as a hand came down on his shoulder.  
  
''I accept it gladly, son of Macalaurë Fëanárion.''  
  
The hands clasped his and raised him. There was the scent of rosewood as firm lips touched his cheeks, left and right, then his brow and lips in acknowledgment of kinship. A frisson of – surely – relief, swept through Tindómion. For the first time the guarded composure of his face relaxed.   
  
''My thanks, sire,'' he said. ''I am honored.''  
  
''I hope thou wilt be my friend Tindómion. Come, sit with me. Thou art a Knight Companion now, for I name thee such, and thou shalt dwell in the palace close to me.''  
  
He gestured toward the doors which lead to the feast hall, and the court silently passed into a room just as large, set with tables and seats. On a dais, a long board held decanters of wine and goblets.  
  
''Come.''  
  
Tindómion looked aside in surprise as Gil-galad guided him to a chair upon his immediate left. The guests sat, and servers came, pouring wine and laying out trays of food.  
  
''So thou art the son of Maglor?'' asked the lady seated to the right of the King. Her face held a strange expression.  
  
''My mother, Lady Rosriel.'' Gil-galad said.  
  
''I am honored, my lady.'' Tindómion sensed the antipathy. Something within him tightened.  
  
''My son does indeed honor thee.'' Rosriel turned away and Tindómion met Gil-galad's eyes briefly, felt a hand touch his arm in reassurance.  
  
''Thy father was a friend to mine and to me, and we are kin, thus I welcome thee and embrace thee with love.'' His voice sounded resonantly against the pillars, and he lifted his gemmed goblet and proferred it. Tindómion hesitated and felt a boot nudge his leg under the table. Elrond raised his brows. Understanding, Tindómion slowly took the cup, bent his head and drank, the wine soothing his dry throat. Oddly exhilarated, he handed the goblet back to his king and Gil-galad sipped. Over the gemmed rim, star-blue eyes held silver. ~ 

~~~

** Lindon ~ Fourth Age **

''I though thee most beautiful person I had ever seen.'' Tindómion's voice dropped into huskiness. ''I knew I wanted thee. I did not know what to do with my desires.''

''Thou hast _never_ known what to do with them, stubborn Fëanorion.'' Gil-galad caught him by his shirt-front, jerked him into a punishing kiss. ''_I _ know what to do with mine!''

''Then why didst though say nothing for so long?'' demanded Tindómion, through the hungry battle of their lips.

''Thou wert young.'' Gil-galad drew back a little. ''And despite thine acceptance when Fanari told me the kind of love my father bore Maedhros, that did not mean that such love was right for thee, or that thou wouldst look on me with desire.''

''I hoped I would not betray myself. I was young, yes, but old enough to love. And then, there were the damned Laws...''

Elegant hands unloosed the silk ties of Tindómion's shirt, while his own sought Gil-galad's warm flesh.

''I thought thou wert not married because — '' He tossed the shirt aside. ''— because of thy father's marriage.'' Raven hair flooded over his chest.

Gil-galad offed Tindómion's boots, deft as a page. Touching down all the length of their bodies they kissed like warriors, like combatants, moving against one another, too impatient, too aroused to part. 

''I love thee, _Nárya._ Love thee and sometimes hate thee.'' His breath was warm against Tindómion's neck. "and still thou hast not paid for those years when I burned for thee.'' He rose and put out a hand. ''Let us bathe.''

''So now thou wilt taunt me?''

"As thou so often taunted me, _lover._" Gil-galad agreed with a flashing smile. ~

~~~

  


  
**   
Chapter End Notes:   
**   


  


Tarnin Austa - The Gates of Summer  
Nárya - my flame - Q

  



	16. A Bitter Harvest

~ **Osgiliath**

~ King Elessar rose slowly from his seat. His hand had closed so tightly on the parchment, it ached. The messenger was Haradhan of the Empire, not one of the men who had accompanied Eldarion. By changing horses frequently at way-stations, the riders of the Imperium could move at speed along the straight roads, handing on their dispatches to others.

Eldarion's flowing writing sputtered across the parchment as if chased by the emotion behind the quill.

''_We arrived on a day of public execution..._'' The words danced jaggedly before the king's eyes. ''_In the great square before the palace...Alphwen had given birth to a stillborn son a month before Tinwen, whose child was born deformed through grave indulgence in wine and in drugs. I am informed by the Emperor that Tinwen's child was taken to Annúminas, to the refuge, where she will be cared for as long as she lives. He says that her mind is perfect, but her body so crippled she will never walk. Tinwen and Alphwen were found guilty of murder and abuse, and it was they who hired assassins to attempt to kill Elgalad, which resulted in the Lady Fanari's death. They were executed that day..._''

The king sat down as if all strength had left his legs.

''_I spoke to the Emperor, and said that you might consider this an act worthy of military retaliation. He asked if noble blood should be treated differently to that of a commoner. I could not say yes, for do our own laws not state that for the lowest, as for the highest, justice should be done? I would beg you father, to accept this judgment, and perhaps, as the Emperor suggested, visit Annúminas, where you may see your granddaughter..._''

Elessar lowered his head into his hands. Shock blanked all coherent thought from his mind until a wave of rage overwhelmed him and brought him back to his feet.

_Executed. My daughters..._

_For murder, for hiring assassins..._

He cursed, tore the parchment across, the scraps fluttering to the floor. Then he raised his head and cried out Vanimórë's name.

_No need to shout, I can hear thee._

"You _killed _...why did you not just send them back?" 

_ My wives come under my laws. _ The words were implacable, disinterested. _ They could have done great things, been the public faces sponsoring my refuges. They did nothing but indulge themselves.  
And do not tell me,_ his mind-voice suddenly whipped. _ that no-one can fight Ungoliant! We can choose. Thy daughters could have had as many children as they desired, and I would have raised them as my own. They murdered one child, and the other — ah, thou shouldst see her, she is thy blood after all; a mind so lovely in a body ruined. Visit thy granddaughter, and see for thyself. And then look on Elgalad, and ask what he has ever done to merit death at the hands of a paid killer, and remember Fanari Penlodiel who died in his stead._

Each word had sliced into Aragorn's mind like a serrated blade. He dug his fingers into his hair in anguish. He _would_ go to Annúminas. But first he had to tell his wife.

~~~

''_It is the ruling of the Council that you cannot declare war upon the Imperium for this act, sire. Your daughters came under the rule of the Emperor when they wed, and thereby the laws of the Imperium._''

They were the final words of Aragorn's Lords who had debated as to what action should be taken after the execution of his daughters. He had laid the matter before them, and this was their considered judgment. The king might increase the strength of his border fortresses, send ambassadors with letters proclaiming his extreme displeasure, but he could not justly declare war. The High Kingdom could not afford a war, not against the Imperium, not now, perhaps not ever. There was public outrage, but whispers had begun to emerge of the princesses past behaiviour. It was said that had they not been of the blood-royal they would have been locked up. It happened, people shrugged. Mayhap the old tales were right, and nothing but sorrow came from the union of Mortal and Elven blood.

The queen had been shocked almost insensible by the news. She grieved, but even beyond that, she she saw the execution of her daughters act as a personal insult. The cursed son of Sauron, born of black sorcery, twisted all his life, lover of other men, had the gall to pronounce judgment on her daughters. Yet her husband would not be moved by her entreaties. He had ridden north to see what he claimed was his granddaughter at Lake Nenuial.

Vanimórë had not lied about the child, Elessar thought, his mind flinching. He had lived long, and had seen such things before. That deformed leg would never walk. No-one would look on her but with revulsion. For the first time he felt more than grief; anger against his daughters roused in him. But it was too late. He had failed, and they were dead. He went to the window, saw that there were soldiers on patrol about the walls, and remembered that they had been placed here after the assassination attempt which had resulted in Fanari's death.

''Assassins sent by thy daughters to kill Elgalad. ''

He turned. Elgalad knelt before the fire, laying apple-wood upon the blaze. Vanimórë stood in the doorway. His eyes were brighter than the fire, colder than a northern winter.

Something snapped in the King; perhaps it was the insouciance of Vanimórë's stance, indolent as a great cat who cannot quite make up its mind whether to kill some small beast or play with it awhile. Elessar's knife flashed from its housing, came down with a violence powered by rage.

One hand snapped around the king's wrist, the other closed about the blade. Blood trickled from between Vanimórë's fingers. He held the steel for a moment, then opened his hand, a deep cut across the palm. He shook it, dashing red across the wall.

''Blood for blood, Elessar?'' he murmured. ''Thy life is _destined_ to be a long one, do not temp destiny.'' With an expert twist the knife fell from the king's grip; one booted foot caught it, flicking it back up. The hilt turned end over end, and Elgalad caught it out of the air.

''What are you?'' Elessar hissed.

''Thine ally, believe it or not.''

''You killed my daughters.''

''If any would live in my land they subject themselves to my laws, Telcontar. And all are treated alike. Many are the princes and kings I have put to death. '' 

''God or no, chosen or no, if I can find a way to make you pay, I will.'' Aragorn spoke through his teeth.

''No, thou wilt not. I am to be upon Arda forever. But thou wilt leave thy kingdom in good hands. Eldarion also will be my ally and...friend.'' Vanimórë stepped away, slipped an arm about Elgalad, who watched the king with lucent, unblinking eyes. ''What wouldst thou have done? Or does the law not apply to thee and thine?''

''I would have tried to heal them,'' the King cried, goaded. ''Taken away their wine and the drugs, had them watched and tended to.''

''I ordered that they be given no wine or drugs, and they found slaves to bring them what they needed. They learned how to put the fear of death into those who served them. If they had made any effort to fight their appetites I would have aided them as I could. They did not.'' Vanimórë was inflexible. "My Laws are simple, it saves a great deal of time. Ungoliant found a home in thy daughters. I have lost her now and my cursed sire. So be it. He will surface, he always does. I found that there are some things I cannot endure." He raised a brow. " Oh, and advise thy wife that any attempt at retribution will be met with retaliation.'' He inclined his head, drew Elgalad from the room.

''Do not you damn well walk away from me, son of Sauron!'' Elessar flung himself forward, met a look like twin bolts from a longbow. ''Is life so worthless to thee?''

"Only theirs. Only all those like them, prince, princess, king, or queen." Over-topping the tall Dúnadan, Vanimórë looked down into his eyes. For the first time, Elessar felt fear. ''Thou wilt not go to war over this. The king has triumphed over the father who feels he failed his daughters. Yet did they not fail thee equally? Now, let there be peace betwixt us.''

Words piled and strangled in the king's throat as Vanimórë kissed him on the brow, an Emperor conferring a blessing. The door closed. Tiny beads of perspiration broke on Elessar's brow as he leaned back against the wood-paneled wall, closed his eyes.

~~~

''I wish thee to remove from here. To Lindon.''

''What of Vanya, and th-the other children?'' Elgalad poured wine.

''Gil-galad will have them in Lindon too. Few Men will go there and any...incursions would be much more easily noticed than here where Men live. And thou...Too many people know that I love thee. It makes thee vulnerable.'' He sipped the wine and then put it aside, slid his fingers into the silver hair. ''My beauty.'' All the blood in his body turned to rivers of fire, and all of them rushed to his loins. He forgot Elessar, forgot everything. There were things more addictive in the world than drugs or wine.   
  
''I will not take thee back to the Imperium," he said, later. "And better for the children to be in some clean place, yes?''

Elgalad's fingers touched his mouth. He asked, '''How did they d-die?''

''A mob tore them to pieces," he said, with self-loathing. Elgalad's touch stilled. He sat up. 

"Ah, my love," he said, and cupped Vanimórë's face in his hands. "I am so sorry."

He was not, Vanimórë knew, speaking of the women. In some way Elgalad knew what it had done to him. And he grieved. ~


	17. “This Night –—   We Burn! ”

~ ** New Cuiviénen **

 

****   
  
~ Fëanor remained in Lindon, immersed in what he was accomplishing there. It served as an anodyne for his grief, helped him to ignore (with difficulty) his blossoming sexual needs.   
The years passed so swiftly that he was startled when Tindómion reminded him that his fiftieth begetting day was approaching.

He traveled back to New Cuiviénen with Gil-galad and his half-brother. The journey was a long one, but greatly facilitated by the excellent roads of both the High Kingdom and the Empire.

With them, in a comfortable wagon traveled Vanya, granddaughter of Elessar. She could not walk, nor speak save clumsily, but had been able to understand mind-speech since childhood. The discrepancy between her body and her mind was such as to be tragic.

Elessar visited her at times and Eldarion, and once Elladan and Elrohir had had her taken to Imladris for a summer. Perhaps it was strange that some-one so afflicted should be a source of joy, yet she undeniably was. Her personality shone from her eyes like a lantern in a dim room.

They would have been met in New Cuiviénen by Fingolfin and the Fëanorions had Fëanor not said beforehand that he would see them at the feast, and only then.  
A typically Fëanorion sense of drama thought Tindómion, amused, knowing they would be astonished. Even he, who had watched Fëanor grow these last years was awed by what he now was, but not surprised

Elves were adult at fifty years, but some did not attain their full growth until one hundred. Not so with Fëanor. He was now as he had been in the fullness of his beauty and strength. Few could meet the blaze of his eyes for long, and their power now seemed deeper.  
  
Cloaked and hooded, Fëanor arrived at night. Tindómion and Gil-galad attended him. They bathed and perfumed him, robed him, braiding his hair with gemmed chains of gold and then, sharing a smile, they left him to prepare themselves.  
  
When they had gone he stood in silence for a while and then said, into the silent room: ''I thank thee mother. I thank thee, Vanimórë.''

~~~

The double doors of the Great Hall silently swung inward. The eyes of the Elves turned.

Fingolfin came to his feet as Fëanor entered, arrayed in the rich colors of his House. He was the Fëanor of Tirion, from the days of Fingolfin's youth, when he watched with fascinated wonder the perilous glory that was the eldest son of Finwë.

The sight of him was a blazing relief to Fingolfin, to his sons who had treated him as a child until he remembered, and even after. His body had been growing, could not be forced into maturity before its natural time, no matter what power ran in his veins now.

Fëanor walked across to his sons, and embraced them. Then he turned to Fingolfin. And smiled.

~~~

Elgalad sat beside Vanya helping her to eat, allowing her to drink a little wine. Her face was dazzled, her questions were swift and constant as a stream. He wondered, as he answered her, where Vanimórë was, for surely he would be here? He knew that at times Vanimórë visited Fëanor in Lindon, and had asked Tindómion if he was still permitted in New Cuiviénen.

''Yes, he may come here,'' Glorfindel had assured him. "And I am sure he will."

Perhaps he would come privately, Elgalad thought, as he watched Vanya. She tired easily. He would see her to her guest room long before midnight.  
When she had still been young, before her tenth birthday, Fëanor had observed Elgalad carrying her, and a few days after had presented Vanya with a wheeled chair, the seat and back padded for her comfort. As she grew, he made others. She was sat in one now, beautifully robed in misty blues, the long skirt hiding her twisted leg. She sparkled with jewels and with her own inner radiance. There was kindness in the faces of the Elves, in their voices when they spoke to her. She had never been treated as if her mind were defective, which had been a great boon to her. It was her body that failed her, and when the music began Elgalad wished that he could lead her up to dance. Her fingers tapped upon the arms of her chair as she watched, and her eyes shone.

Their dances performed by the Noldor were, in general, more stately and formal than those of Elgalad's kindred. But there were exceptions, and this night was one of them.

When he had been proclaimed High King, Fëanor had made new Laws, rejecting those fashioned by the Valar. He had bethought them in Tirion, long before his father's death. 

The first law to be discarded was edit against loving one of the same gender; the first law made was that a marriage might be annulled if one of the spouses lost desire. Remarriage, or the taking of lovers was to be easy, natural.   
  
It was hoped that many children would be born in New Cuiviénen, and Fëanor had proclaimed a new custom: that on their fiftieth begetting day, the celebrant might ask for a gift as long as it did not impugn the honor of either the one who asked or the one of whom the gift was requested. It might be to be trained by a warrior one especially admired, a fine horse, armor, weapon, jewelry. The celebrant would hand out a red and white ribbon, and tie it about the wrist of the potential gift-giver, then lead them to a private room and ask for their gift. There was no limit to the number of people who might be approached, but Fëanor held only five ribbons in his hand as he stepped between the dancers, who whirled gracefully from his path as he approached Fingolfin. He and his half-brother circled one other, eyes locked, and then with a quick wrist-flick, Fëanor tossed the ribbon. It should have been a playful gesture, but there was that in it which suggested the snap of a whip. Fingolfin caught it, and they circled again. There was no overt sexuality in the performance of this dance, yet it crackled between them. Their eyes fixed upon one another, Fëanor pulled firmly on the ribbon, drew Fingolfin closer and tied the ends about his wrist. 

He moved on, came to Maglor, and performed the same act gravely, unsmiling.

Elgalad watched, aroused. He knew the potency of Fëanor too well, saw how it affected Fingolfin and Maglor who had their own measure of dangerous sexuality. There was no doubt in his mind, and perhaps not in any-one's but the willfully blind, what Fëanor would ask of them. Then Fëanor turned, glittering, and advanced on him like a summer storm. Elgalad's throat dried as the red and white silk undulated toward him. He caught it, and at the same moment, a hand came down on his shoulder. 

Fëanor met Vanimórë's eyes. When he tied the silk about Elgalad's wrist, a faint smile curled his mouth. He turned back to the dancers.   
Elgalad found his voice. ''I hoped thou w-wouldst come.''

''I would not miss this, beloved.'' Vanimórë murmured, laughter in his voice, then went down in a hunter's crouch beside Vanya. His expression was as kind as such a haughty bone-structure could permit.

''Thou art lovely, this night, my sweet,'' he said. 

Her hand came up and touched his face. Elgalad, watching, wondered how people could question his love for Vanimórë, or could doubt Vanimórë capable of love.

''I have something for thee, I will show it thee on the morrow. I think we must take thee to thy chambers, my dear. You have much to see here before we return to Lindon, and I want thee to be rested.'' He laid a finger on her lips to forestall her protest and smiling, she sat back and nodded.

And then the hall fell silent. The one person every-one had expected to be here had been absent until now. The double doors opened to admit Glorfindel, bearing Fëanor's gift. Legolas walked beside him, robed in rich chestnut and yew-green; Greenwood colours. His brow was bound with silver. For a moment they paused in the frame of the door, before pacing into the hall. They stopped before Fëanor, and Glorfindel held out the casket. Their eyes met. There were memories in them.

"Thou hast not asked me since thy return." Glorfindel's voice carried in the great chamber. "And all witnessed that thou wert willing to give up a Silmaril to save the lives of those thou didst love. The time has come. No other may wear this but thee." He turned back the lid of the casket. The Silmaril of the Oceans, set within a circlet, recognized its maker with a triumphant shout of fire.  
  
Lifting it, Glorfindel placed it upon Fëanor's brow, who raised his head. His eyes blazed, and one Silmaril became three. He was a white flame in the room. The hall went down on one knee, but as Glorfindel moved, Fëanor reached out, looped a ribbon about his wrist and snapped it tight. Tension came down between them like a hammer. Diamond flame faced solar-gold as Fëanor ran the remaining ribbon through his fingers. Watching in the sudden silence Vanimórë smiled faintly, wryly, arms folded.

"I ask nothing that impugns another's honor." Moving past him, Fëanor walked to Legolas, whose eyes caught the radiance like blue gems. He reached out, caught the last ribbon around the prince's wrist, and tied it.

~~~

The atmosphere was so dreamlike, so keen with lust that those who converged on Fëanor's rooms felt no embarrassment. They scarcely acknowledged one another as the door was opened and they stepped within.

Fëanor had divested himself of his formal clothes, and was wrapped in a lounging robe which came to his thighs. His hair was unbound, falling to his knees, but the circlet still blazed on his brow. There was a wild richness to him, a beauty that was terrifying.

"I claim my..._ gifts._" His voice thrummed as he trailed a hand along their shoulders, through black hair, silver and gold. Moving to face them, he kissed each one, then too a step back, admiring. He came up against a living barrier. Hard arms closed around him.

Vanimórë smiled over Fëanor's shoulder, pressed a kiss to his throat, and Fëanor's head tipped back. A sigh whispered through his parted lips as Vanimórë loosed his robe, drew it back like a sculptor presenting his finished creation. A master-work. The silk slipped down. Fëanor raised his head. 

"This night," he said, "_We burn._"

Tangled limbs, the hiss of silk sheets under bodies which moved in a battle of passion like great cats, creatures which knew no shame, knew only desire.

The night was a distillation of lust shattered by moans of pain, of need, by curses, cries of pleasure attained, and sought anew. Silmaril-light pulsed, caught the striving of sinew, flesh and bone in moments of frozen time. 

Heartbeats. Wet skin. Coils of damp, shining hair. Luminous eyes quenched under long lashes. The shameless arch of sleek backs, long legs, the hard curve of buttock, the play of muscle, the blossom of bites and kisses on white flesh. Voices begged, demanded, gasped out names; throaty vocalizations of a passion which gathered, broke, gathered again and again, to an immense wave which at last crashed, fuming, into fire. ~


	18. In The Shadow of Darkness

**New Cuiviénen.**

~ What Vanimórë wished to show Vanya was a two-wheeled open carriage. It could run smoothly along the white roads the Noldor had laid down, and Vanya's mind bubbled with glee as Elgalad took the reins.  
He smiled at Vanimórë, still feeling the wild night in body and blood. Vanimórë winked at him, and watched, with folded arms, as the carriage rolled down the road

''Hast thou never tried to heal her?''

Maglor's face was inaccessible. Vanimórë smiled with deliberate provocation then, glancing back at the carriage, his amusement faded.

''I have, and so has Elessar. It hurt her. I could not continue. And yes, thou might well ask what is the good of power when it cannot heal? All I will be known for is blood and death.''

"Blood and death is not the sum of what thou art."

"Why, how kind of thee." Vanimórë opened his eyes very wide. "It was a _remarkable_ night, was it not?"  


Maglor said something under his breath, turned and strode away. Vanimórë laughed quietly.

~~~

**The Imperium**

East of New Cuiviénen, across rolling Palisor, the Imperium sprawled, seething, vibrant, bloody, and in the great cities, the games were held each half year.

Unlike the Death Games of Tanith, the games of the Imperium incorporated athletic tests of skill, but there was combat, which invariably lead to deaths. Most of the entrants were soldiers who desired to show their prowess, and the purses of gold they could win were heavy, an added incentive. A slave could obtain his freedom in the games, and even thirty years ago people had petitioned for training schools.

Pallando said, ''The older ones still remember that the Imperium began on a sand floor in Tanith.''

''Nothing began for me in Tanith,'' Vanimórë replied. ''It was a deadly game, and I almost did not win it. I have not won it yet.''

''Nevertheless, my lord, your people wish to see you at these spectacles. It maintains the... glamor.''

"They do not want to see me," Vanimórë said in derision. "They want to see blood."  
  
The greatest arena was in Pashaar. Unlike Tanith, there was no statue looming over it, no pits of fire or spikes. Chariot and foot races were held there, archery and javelin competitions. The Haradhrim loved to wager on such sports.

Vanimórë did not rest. He hunted rumors of atrocities, found children and women whom he delivered to the refuges. The perpetrators were brought to Pashaar to fight in the games. If it aroused them to cause pain to those weaker, it was only fitting they meet men who wanted to hurt them. There was no reprieve for them. Vanimórë could see the pleasure they felt in rape and torture, knew they do the same again. Their lives were forfeit. Yet some fought and won, and those he would deal with himself.

The man stood breathing heavily. Blood ran in ribbons down his muscled over-form, and sweat streamed from his pores. About him lay four fighters, one still twitching with a deep wound to his belly. The crowds' roars had subsided to mutterings. The man was condemned to death for the killing of children, but he lived. His name was Pheraxis. He was not yet thirty, and handsome. He did not look like a man who would rape and murder young girls and women. Now, he spat blood upon the sand and raised his sword in a mocking salute. 

''What now, O Emperor?'' he panted, his teeth showing in a grimace. ''Whom will you send now to dispense your _justice?_''

The muttering grew, as necks craned toward the Imperial stand. The Emperor rose, loosed his cloak. It fell from his shoulders. Silence fell with it.

Stepping to the edge, Vanimórë jumped down. He was not wearing his sabers; he never did for this. The sun flared from steel as a knife was drawn from his thigh-sheath.

Pheraxis laughed too loudly, fell into a fighters crouch and the two circled.

"I am honoured," he said, licking his lips.

_Thou hast no regrets, feel no guilt, _ Vanimórë thought, noting the professional stance. The man had been a soldier, and a good one. He had stamina. It was almost a shame to loose him. Almost.

"At least I fucked women," he taunted, and lunged. Vanimórë dropped to one knee in a blur. The short sword hissed past his ear as the dagger sank into the man's groin, and back out. Pheraxis' face went blank. Blood gouted in a plume. Vanimórë rose and walked away, pausing for a moment to dispatch the stomach-wounded fighter. Cheers thundered as he returned to his seat. On the blooded sand Pheraxis fell headlong.

''Very neat, my lord,'' Pallando offered as one of the Steelguard brought a ewer of water and another held up his cloak. Vanimórë laved his hands, wiped arterial scarlet from his face.

''He died gloating.'' Cold rage was in his voice. ''I did not win. His heart was unrepentant.'' He snapped his fingers for wine.

_I lost. I am losing all the time. _   
  
The Imperium was the glitter of wealth, terrible poverty, and the underlying ferment of a volatile people. Yet it was his, and he ruled.   
His bureaucratic system was vast, great web of the most intelligent minds he could find. All feathered their own nests, sought advancement.

He commanded his armies, who were becoming legendary. The training started young, and boys from any rank of society might join. Soldiers were given free housing, and there were pensions for those injured, for widows and children.  
All warriors harbored a desire to be chosen for the Steelguard, hand-picked by the Emperor. A legion's reputation was enhanced greatly when it was known that a Steelguard had come from its ranks. Every captain kept an eye on likely candidates, sending messages to the Emperor if a young man showed promise.  
Vanimórë would speak to them, spar with them, and if he were impressed they would serve with the Guard for half a year, after which time he would decide if they were to be accepted formally into its ranks. The number of that elite unit remained constant at four thousand. Attrition was high, not through war, but training, and after the age of forty the guard would retire honorably, either to command another legion or, if he chose, to live comfortably on his pension. Most did not retire, they were highly sought after, and some left the empire for distant lands.

''The soldiers worship you,'' Pallando observed. 

Vanimórë said coldly: ''I am not Morgoth. I am not Sauron. I wish my laws to be observed, that is all.''

But Pallando was right: The soldiers sacrificed animals to him in secret rites, but it was not just among the army he was worshiped. Women burned incense to him, farmers sprinkled their own blood upon their crops, and prayed for rich harvests.

Dark God...

Never before had the turbulent lands of the Harad been so well patrolled, so prosperous. And yet somewhere Sauron lurked, hidden so completely by Unlight that his son could not feel him. And he would be growing in strength. Vanimórë waited.

~~~

''I wish to leave, Sire.''

Vanimórë's eyes rose. He sat back, his hands spread on the papers before him.

"Might one inquire why? And to where? I could look into thy mind. But that is so ill mannered, no?"

''I wish to go home.''

''To Valinor?''

''Is that so strange? I have forgotten...'' Pallando's voice faded as if he groped for memories. ''Once there was bright peace. It has been too long.''

Vanimórë spread his hands. ''I cannot stop thee.''

A faint smile curved the bearded lips. ''Oh, you could. Easily. But you will not, I think.''

''No, I will not. I hope thou dost find the er... bright peace that thy soul now desires, I would find it too dreadfully dull myself.'' Vanimórë leaned back in the chair, put his feet up on the table. ''I will provide thee with an escort to the borders of Lindon, as I assume thou wilt depart from Mithlond? There they will leave thee. I will not send Imperial troops into an Elven realm.''

Pallando bowed. ''You are gracious, Sire. It has been..._very_ interesting to observe you. Who would have believed it, son of Sauron?''

''Not I,'' Vanimórë said. ''Give me a list of those I may consider to replace thee as my chief adviser.''

''I will see to it now, Sire.'' He went to the door, passed out with a hush of blue robes.

~~~

**Lindon**

''The Lay of Leithien?'' Elgalad asked, and Vanyanodded. There were shadows under her eyes. Her skin was very white.

Although Elgalad could not admit it even to himself, he knew that her never-robust health was failing. Her lips sometimes held a bluish tinge, and she slept at odd times of the day. When she woke her eyes would stare at him, as if committing him to memory before a long journey. The longest. She had suffered pain all her life, and never complained. In the last year the pains had become concentrated in her breast.

She tried not to show it, but Elgalad knew. He would hold her as she drifted to sleep, and he imagined her running through a summer land, free as a lark.

Elgalad drew his fingers down the harp-strings, aware of her eyes on him. 

''_...there Beren came from mountains cold,_  
and lost he wandered under leaves,  
And where the Elven river rolled,  
He walked alone and sorrowing... ''

Vanya's lashes dropped as he sang. He stilled the strings, and rose draping a shawl over her. The spring airs were still cool. His face was sorrowful as he bent to lightly kiss her brow.

_She is dying._

Startled, he turned. An old man was standing in the doorway. His face was framed by a short grey beard; rich blue robes were belted at the waist by gilded leather.

_Elgalad,_ he nodded.

_Whom art thou? _ Elgalad demanded.

_We have never met before. But I am one who can ensure the cripple dies screaming if you do not do precisely as I command. _   
At his words Vanya's brow creased and a small moan passed her lips. Elgalad's heart leaped into his throat.

''Or she can sleep peacefully,'' the man whispered. ''You cannot call out to Vanimórë. We are hidden. You are trying to, not? And he is oblivious. I know. I have _always _ been linked to his mind. What are sons' but a mirror to their fathers?''

Elgalads eyes widened in sudden, flaring comprehension. 

''Yes,'' said Sauron. '' Pallando did, I suppose, have _some_ uses. So you had better come, had you not? ''

~~~

Vanya's eyes opened the merest slit when she heard the door creak open. Elgalad's footfalls were always silent, but she had heard the man who was no Man approaching, and held herself still. She had been close to slumber when she heard Elgalad's intake of breath, felt pain lance through her withered leg.

Unable to suppress the sound which broke from her, she had forced her eyes to remain fast shut, not knowing why she did so, save that the stranger's aura terrified her in a way that Vanimórë, with all his power, never had.

_ What are sons' but a mirror to their fathers?_

Panic burst and beat through her like a trapped bird. 

The room was empty. A shaft of sunlight fell through the window onto the wooden floor. There were no rugs here, so that she might propel her wheeled chair on hard surfaces, though of late she lacked the strength.

She listened intently for a moment, then and lowered her hands, thrusting herself forward, wishing more desperately than ever in her life that she could run for help.

Another stab of pain made her gasp. The chair's wheels knocked the door and swung it shut. She moaned in frustration, clasping her breast where a terrible pressure was stealing her breath. She could not even cry out, though there was no-one close by to hear if she did. The two sisters who tended her were out in the gardens.

_Please. _ She felt tears run down her face. _Please! _ ~  



	19. Come Home

~ ** Lindon **

  

~ ''Let me phrase this simply for you, Elgalad,'' Sauron murmured. ''You will cause me no trouble, and the woman will suffer no more pain. Do you understand?''

Elgalad nodded. 

"Good.'' Sauron walked toward the waiting horses. "Imperial soldiers await us beyond the border. They will kill you if I order it. They have been long enough with me and with _her_ in the journey from Pashaar. They do not know _you,_ but they know me, and I am under orders from the Emperor himself. A very delicate, very secret mission has been entrusted to me, his chief adviser. The soldiers will not question anything I do, or ask them to do. Understand?''

''You cannot h-harm Vanimórë!'' Elgalad flashed. "Not any more. H-he is stronger than thee."

''I cannot harm him _physically,_ no. I cannot influence him or control him directly, but the time for that is over. But I can hurt _you._ You, his greatest weakness.''

Fear edged itself into Elgalad like a cold blade. He beat it back. He did not fear death, but he did fear leaving Vanimórë.

''You will die in any event, at least make it worth the cripples life.'' Sauron smiled. ''You knew, did you not? He is too much for you. He always would have been, but when he became a Power...The truth is he takes too much and gives too little.''

''Thou art wrong,'' Elgalad said. ''Thou and him b-both.''

With an ironic look Sauron gestured to the horse.  
''Unlight hides us, but it does not block my powers. I can send the cripple terrors that will take her screaming into death if you cause me any problems.''

''I understand.'' Elgalad enunciated. ''I would like to see what h-happens when he catches up with thee.'' His muscles had locked on hatred. Sauron had abused Vanimórë for thousands of years. But now Vanimórë was in a position to make his father pay. But how to alert him? He could always sense Vanimórë's presence like a fire in the night. Now, there was nothing. 

''I am sure. Thou art not above revenge, art thou, beauty?'' Sauron smiled. ''But there is always a way back for me, as long as my son is in Arda. The dissolution of form can be painful, and it always inconvenient — and temporary. That aging king of Gondor and Arnor will die knowing my defeat was but a pause as it were, to gather breath. And you...you have more than one use. I was always rather disappointed that my son did not bring you to me.''

Distantly, Elgalad had been surprised that he was not more afraid. But Vanimórë's powers had wrapped around him, penetrated him, and perhaps he had become accustomed to it. Now, a chill seeped into his bones at the last words. Sauron's eyes were night-black, seemed to blaze out of some remote place of fire. No longer did he seem simply an old man but something unhuman, a shadow of power and darkness that loomed over Elgalad, blotting the sun.

~~~

The pain was dreadful. A spear was lodged in her breast. Iron bands tightened about her faltering heart. Vanya knew this must be death, and she was alone and afraid. She had always been afraid, and she wept with the knowledge that there was no-one to hear her silent screams, that she could do nothing to help Elgalad. She must, _must_ tell some-one. But her mind seemed as shackled as her useless body.

_Please, please hear me! _

~~~

''Why do I have to command thee to come to me?''  
Gil-galad cast a sidelong glance at his lover.

''I like to wait until thou art thoroughly enraged,'' Tindómion replied, straight-faced. ''It is so...arousing.'' He kissed his fingertips, laughed and urged his stallion to a gallop. Glancing back, he saw Gil-galad mouth a curse, and then, for no reason he could think off, expression left the King's face.

''What?''

Gil-galad pointed. ''_Look._''

At the edge of the meadow a belt of trees stood quiet in the cool sun. There was a flash of movement among the trunks, a pale and glimmering shape. As one, the men set their mounts to a run, slowing as they reached the trees. There was nothing, no birdsong, no stir of wind.

A woman with hair like night was running through the wood. She seemed to gather herself from the shadows cast by the trees, become visible as they watched, only to melt again into the shade. Her long gown and hair lilted as she moved, the light winking in flashes from golden flowers embroidered on her robes.

_Who...? _ They followed, drawn on like hunters. She disappeared, and then was there once more in the distance where the trees thinned.  
From somewhere close by came the resonant call of a nightingale; a night-bird singing in daylight.

The woman glided on, her steps almost a dance. At one glimpse she seemed as real as the earth, at another her figure was as the gleam of mist.   
The roof-tree of a tall house jutted above a gathering of elms.  
The woman halted, turned back and for a moment Tindómion thought she was his mother, before her face came clear, and he saw that she was a stranger. As he stared, she was gone into the sunlight. 

They did not speak as they dismounted and ran to the house. Neither doubted the woman had lead them here.

''Elgalad?'' Tindómion pushed at one of the doors which hit an obstacle behind it. As he eased it back, he heard the roll of wheels, and knew who was in this room.

Vanya sobbed in a burst of relief as the two Noldor entered the room. She felt herself lifted in strong arms, and concentrated with the last of her strength

''I can hear thee in my mind, Vanya,'' Tindómion murmured as he held her. ''Do not try to speak.''

_ He came and took Elgalad. He threatened to harm me. _ Vanya stiffened as the last pain she would ever suffer ran into her like a blade. _ Sauron, an old man he seemed, but it was Sauron. You must tell Vanimórë!_

Darkness pressed all around her, her last thoughts scattered. No more pain. No more fear... 

She opened her eyes.

A woman was standing in the doorway. There was a radiance to her, as if moonlight welled through her flesh. She held out her white arms and said, _Come, Vanya._

The room was shadowless, as if the brilliance of the woman banished all darkness, paled the sunlight. Vanya felt herself as light as thistledown as she walked forward. The woman took her hands and smiled. Vanya looked back, saw Tindómion holding her discarded body, a sad shell, twisted, and useless. She did not need it now. It had been a cage all her short life.

The Elves were luminous. She could see the rising-star auras about them. With her new vision, they were almost painfully real, both young and ancient. And they were staring straight at her. They could see her, she and the woman who had relinquished her immortality for love.

_All will be well. In the end, all manner of things will be well. _

The woman's voice was a bell tone, silver on crystal. _Come, Vanya._

_Whom art thou? _  
Though she knew.

_ I am thy kinswoman, dear one. And I have come to take thee home._

_ Elgalad?_

_ The Music is not yet ended._

And Vanya understood.

_Tell them I love them. And I thank thee. I have had a ** wonderful ** life. _

The men heard her. She smiled on them and walked away. The walls of the house faded, and before them stretched a land of Light.

~~~

The figure seemed formed from the shattering of a thousand diamonds, insubstantial as an autumn cobweb. She walked, lovely and lissome, toward the woman who waited, then turned back. They men saw Vanya as she should have been, tall and beautiful and _ free._  
Tindómion gently laid down the body. The long, thick hair spilled to the floor. Gil-galad touched her cheek knowing this face, damaged before birth, had never been her true one, that the loveliness they had seen had always been there, under the ruin.   
''She is whole now, Istelion. But Elgalad is in great danger.''

Flame exploded in their eyes. Tindómion flung back his mass of bronze hair and cried out: ''_Vanimórë!_'' ~


	20. “Not This Time, Father ! ”

~ **Pashaar - The Imperium.**

 

~ Cathaia's ruler, the Son of Heaven had decided that the colossal power of the Imperium required observation, and sent an embassy to Pashaar. Thus far, they were favourably impressed. The Cathaian's had always considered the Haradhrim barbarians. 

To the Son of Heaven, whose line was descended of the Sun and Moon, even a ruler claiming descent from Sauron, merited little respect. What did command respect (and some awe) were his armies, and the speed in which he moved them.

So far Vanimórë's dealings with Cathai were friendly, but when one considered that this so-called Dark God had taken Khand and Chey Sart at almost one move, this was scant comfort.

Haian Lu-taan, the Ambassador, a cousin to the Son of Heaven, was pleasantly surprised by the chambers allotted to him. There was no need even to change the silks of the bed. They were obviously Cathaian, and scented with sweet herbs. The gardens, while nothing compared to those of Loishan were, Haian grudgingly conceded, well enough for a desert city. He did not admit to awe at the vastness of the palace, for he recognized well enough when architecture was used to intimidate.

This was a martial society, that was clear by the numbers of guards in the palace, and the troops that met his entourage at the border of Upper Khand. Guards, not servants conducted Haian to the throne room where the Emperor awaited them. And Vanimórë _did_ impress the young man.  
He received the Cathaians' formally, wearing the strange ornament which framed his face in black filigree. His clothes were black doeskin worked soft as cloth, and superbly tailored. As he rose (an unexpected courtesy, Haian admitted) one could see how tall he was, how beautifully proportioned, like the warriors of Cathaia who were taut and lean, never over-muscled, made of whipcord and steel.

Haian had composed a poem of greeting and, as his aide declaimed it, the Ambassador noted that it was received attentively. Some of the barbarous chieftains of Rhun evinced no interest in such things, and did attempt to hide it. The emperor nodded to a servant who bought ink, parchment and a brush, and when he was finished, handed the result to the aide.

"_Spring may bring bitter frosts,_  
but the cherry blooms,  
breathe a richer scent,  
in the warm winds of amity."

Which was an auspicious and thought-provoking beginning, Haian considered, as he bowed and permitted himself and his people to be seated.  
The emperor was a surprisingly subtle and very clever man....No, Haian corrected himself as he delicately took a handful of briny olives. This was no man. Old tales told of spirits like this, white skinned, fell-eyed. In the remoter parts of Cathaia peasants claimed to still glimpse them in the forests. Perhaps he was indeed the son of Sauron, perhaps not. Whomever he was, he was urbane, civilized and was, thought Haian, running over the first line of the poem in his mind, incredibly dangerous. The Imperial Court of Loishan was a place of ambition and intrigue cloaked in silk, poetry and exquisite manners; he well knew that some of the most dangerous people of all were those who appeared the most cultured.

''You know our language, lord,'' he commented speaking, out of politeness, in the common tongue of the Harad.

''I have been in Cathaia some few times, in secret,'' Vanimórë replied. ''I speak many languages. Cathaian is a tonal language, I always found it rather attractive.''

''It is the only civilized language of the world, lord. So you have seen Cathaia? We kept aloof from the troubles of the world and the er...Dark Lord. When were you there?''

''Long ago, Lord Haian, when Sauron was debating whether or not to conquer thee, or wait until he had dealt with his more ancient enemies, the people of Númenor.'' The white teeth gleamed briefly. ''I advised him not to spread himself too thin back then. Cathaia is a vast land. And thy people interest me. They are some of the few who made their own way. I hope our two Empires may enjoy a profitable relationship.''

''Your empire produces much which is useful,'' Haian admitted, inclining his head. ''And we, of course, have much to offer. I believe our friendship can increase in...amity.''

~~~

Haian was more impressed with the reception and the Dark God than he had expected. The quiet and beautifully conducted meal, far different to the orgiastic feast he had half-expected, was progressing very well indeed — up to the point when the Emperor came to his feet in a movement so fast that Haian could have sworn he _blurred._

Silence fell. The room grew darker. All light concentrated upon the Emperor, whose eyes were pools of blazing purple. There was a _crack! _ an explosion as a tall alabaster vase shattered into thousands of pieces. The guests ducked as another blasted into shards, and their host vanished with a flash and splitting of the air which left ghostly flames dancing before their eyes.

''Please... do go on with your meals.'' The shaken voice was that of Dhamu, the recently appointed chief adviser. ''The emperor needs to be elsewhere on...urgent business, it seems.''

''This is... _most_...unprecedented.'' Haian wrestled his voice into calm, fastidiously brushing slivers of stone from his silk robes. It did not do to openly show concern, certainly not the shock he was presently experiencing.

''No impoliteness was intended, lord.'' Dhamu bowed. ''Our emperor sees and hears things no mortal man can, and he needs to attend to them.'' Surreptitiously he dabbed at his brow, and clapped his hands for more wine.

**Lindon**

The door flung back upon its hinges, crashing against the wall. The displacement of the air, the energy behind it swirled an aetheric wind ahead of Vanimórë. He dropped on his knees beside Vanya, cupped her cheek with his palm. 

"Go free, sweet heart.'' He kissed her on the lips and rose, and fury roared back into that small space of calm. His head turned as if he could sense an familiar odor.

''_Sauron!_'' The cry blew every pane of glass in the house from its leads.  
''Not this time, _father._''

~~~

The shock-wave of rage impacted on Fëanor and Maglor in New Cuiviénen. Like a warhound lifting its muzzle to the wind, Fëanor turned his head north. He set down his tools, strode from the forge where the great crucibles set the air wavering with heat. He seemed to carry it with him as he strode toward the palace.  
He almost collided with Maglor who was rounding a corner, black brows drawn together as if his head pained him. Putting out his hands, Fëanor caught and held him.

''I know,'' he said. '

"I wish to come," Maglor said. "_I will come. _ When Sauron is found I wish to be there. Do not deny me this."

Fëanor nodded, his fingers tracing the high curve of his son's cheek.  
"Yes," he murmured. "_Thou art mine, _ and Morgoth's lackey will pay in full, for he dared to touch thee. We _ both _ have the right, nay the duty, to face him. Come then.''

~~~

Elgalad had cause to be thankful for the professionalism of Vanimórë's soldiers. Unlike the time he had been taken by a band of wolfs-heads, these were not going to abuse him. They formed a close cordon about him as he rode, they hunted, set up camp and stood watch with few words. On the roads they kept to themselves. Imperial troops were not a common sight here in the north, but relations between the High Kingdom and the Imperium were amiable, and there was trade.

Elgalad realized that those who passed them did not see them; it was as if they were some blank spot in the mind and eye. It was an uncanny experience to ride straight past a troop of soldiers, a caravan of merchants, and have them look straight through one.

Elgalad could not feel Vanimórë, Glorfindel or Fëanor and he knew that Ungoliant was somehow present, if disembodied, weaving her strange Unlight about them all. Unlight or no, Elgalad could do nothing without harming Vanya. He had no doubt at all that Sauron would kill her without a blink. As for he himself, he was going to his death, and if he attempted to flee, it would not be his death alone but Vanya's also. He would give Sauron no cause to hurt her. 

He wondered as they journeyed on, if the men did not see Sauron as he did. To Elgalad he seemed to change each day, as if different muscles moved under his skin, a more delicate bone structure becoming apparent. He went hooded, but now and then a glimpse of pale hair showed, flaxen, not grey. He had not had occasion to chastise Elgalad, but he did not need to use power to wound. 

_How do you know he has not ordered this, that he has not tired of you? He has other lovers. _

Elgalad did not answer, but could not refrain from looking back the way they had come, and heard mocking laughter in his mind. No-one had come after him. Five days on the north-south road and there was no sign that any-one even knew he had left Lindon.  
He remembered the time long ago when Vanimórë had shown him glimpses of his own torment under Sauron. Then, it had had the effect intended, sending a young Elgalad fleeing into the night, to Mirkwood. Now, ice filled his veins but with it paradoxically, came the hot burn of defiance. Vanimórë had survived, Elgalad would not, and every dying had an end. Life would pass from him, but not love. Sauron could not kill love. ~  



	21. Dark Hungers

~ ** Eregion **

~ ''No, I cannot,'' Fëanor reiterated, impatient. ''If any Power could see into Unlight, Morgoth would never have escaped Aman with the Silmarilli.''

''A Silmaril?'' Tindómion looked over his shoulder from where he was buckling his sword belt.

"I am here." His grandfather smiled dangerously.

''Thou canst lure her. She came on the Isle, drawn by Glorfindel's light.'' Vanimórë's voice was like the first distant roll of thunder before a storm. "She came out. I went in." _ And Sauron spoke to me, there in the void..._

His eyes were blank for a long moment, then turned back to Fëanor.  
''It was feeling Elgalad with thee, his passion, his rapture that gave me the fury and the will to fight. And I welcomed _them_ in, so that I might challenge her. Neither of them are going to aid me this time.''

''Then we draw her out, and do not allow her to hide again. Ensure her mind is occupied, call her away from Sauron and leave him exposed.'' Gil-galad's eyes were hard, brilliant. ''He will have to meet us unaided and alone.''

''Thou art not the only one who desires to meet him, Gil,'' Maglor murmured.

''She is surely not stupid enough to be lured out by me,'' Vanimórë mused. ''She has...evolved to survive. Once it was Light she lusted after, her opposite. On the isle it was blood; she has to exist, she is part of creation. There is no Light without Darkness, after all. She has not lost her appetites, they have only diversified.''

''I can draw her,'' Fëanor said with certitude, still smiling. ''If we can find them. If thou art certain her lusts are still as great as ever.''

''I know they are.''

''Where will Sauron go?'' Gil-galad asked.

''North perhaps. One of the old orc-holds.'' The reply was tossed over Vanimórë's shoulder. ''They must have left some trace of their passing. Come!''

_Elgalad. Why did I not take thee to New Cuiviénen? I never insisted. Was it because of Fëanor, because he is no different now than he was when he seduced thee? Because I am just a jealous bastard who clings to the one person I know truly loves me._  
He reached out, the stunning force of his mind searing through the aether and felt...nothing.

"Hide while thou canst." He wavered close to fire in his rage, but anger would not find Elgalad or Sauron, if indeed it were not already too late.

***

''We may not be able to see them but they will have left some kind of trail; they have to rest, use cook-fires. My soldiers know how to hunt, live off the land, they need not lodge at inns or stop at villages, so we can forget them.''

Vanimórë had judged that Sauron would go north, not through Lindon, rather the wild, lonely border between Lindon and Arnor. Both Vanimórë and Maglor were peerless trackers, but they had found no sign of horses or camp fire.

''The mountains would suit Sauron. There are orcs there and he has no army...''

''So would Mordor suit him,'' Gil-galad said.

''Thou sayest he has no army,'' Tindómion looked at Vanimórë. ''Art thou certain of that? Are there not orcs still in Mordor?''

''I go to Mordor, though not so much in these latter years.'' Vanimórë drew rein. ''There are orcs yes, south around Nurnen. A long journey, even for my father.''

The horses wheeled, turned south.  
"If I desire," Vanimórë continued. "I can see all Arda, as far as the Sun Lands in the east and the Dark Lands of the South, a living map under mine eyes — and impenetrable shadows cover my father. _I am blind. _ I cannot find Elgalad. But I do know that Sauron would not simply kill him; he could have done that in Lindon.''

"He wants thee to suffer," Fëanor said. 

***

_He never loved you. He moulded you, used you. And do you truly love him? What is there to love? He was only ever a whore to those greater. The both of you delude yourselves._

''What if we d-do?'' Elgalad cried. The Imperial soldiers snapped their hands to their sword hilts, but Sauron shook his head, and the weapons remained sheathed.

''_I love him._ And if it is d-delusion it was magnificent. It w-was enough.''

_Was._ He had given the word the past tense.

_Thou art not amusing, Meluion. Indulge me. _ Sauron smiled.

_I do not amuse thee? Then kill me. I have_ loved, _ Mairon, Gorthaur. Hast thou? Or hast thou forgotten? It was long, long ago when thy brethren loved thee._

The blow whipped his head to one side, brought a rill of blood beading from the corner of his mouth, but he looked back, and Sauron could see no fear in his eyes. There was grief, there was sorrow, but no fear.  
There would be fear in the end.

They had not left the road. Their tracks, the droppings of the horses, even the camp fires would look no different to any others, whereas if they struck off alone they would be more easily followed. Reaching Tharbad however, Sauron seemed to hesitate and weigh his options. He ordered that they turn north.

There had still been no sign of pursuit and this troubled Elgalad more than any words Sauron whispered into his mind. Had no-one even noticed he was gone? Vanya would have told her servants, perhaps they had sent to Lindon...?

He had never been in the land through which they passed, but he knew it from old tales: Eregion, where once Ost-in-Edhil had flourished before the old wars. Vanimórë had fought here himself, and it seemed to bring back memories to the Dark Lord also. His taunts became less frequent.  
Hollin, it had been called, so named for the abundance of the great holly trees that grew here. It was a beautiful land, yet there was a sadness to it, green-grown memories of those who had lived here. It had not been repopulated by the Noldor of Lindon. Too many had died here. It was an empty land.

Elgalad's eyes rose to the peaks of the Towers of Mist, white against a sky the color of cobalt. Beneath those three peaks to the north lay the most ancient dwelling of the Dwarves, Hadhodrond in the Elven tongue. Khazad-dûm. Called Moria, the Black Pit.

''Yea, Moria.'' Sauron spoke for the first time in three days. He turned to the soldiers. ''Your task is ended when we enter the mountains, I will give you a verbal report to take back to the Emperor.''

_ He will kill them, _ Elgalad thought. A flash of fire in his mind made him blink.

_Ignorance is sometimes a comfort, is it not? _

_I want him._ The voice – _Her _ voice slithered into Sauron's mind.

_No. _

_ His blood is sweet and wild. _

_He is not for you to play with. There will be others. The Men you may have. _

_ When? I hunger. _ Her voice was black snakes in a lightless pit. _ I would eat. _

_ You will wait, or gain naught. Always your greed has defeated you. _

Elgalad watched the stars. They crowned the peaks of the mountains in a coronet of lights. He saw proud Menelvagor, Guardian of Arda, he who presaged the Last Battle at the End of Days, yet the presence of Sauron and Ungoliant seemed to haze it. A darkness pressed down on his senses, leaching joy and hope from him, pushing him downward into despair.

He did not sleep. The soldiers on watch stood while their fellows slept, the night-sheen glinting from their armor, and Elgalad wished he could warn them. They were not evil; they believed they were following the Emperor's orders. Elgalad rested his brow against his arm, longing for the comfort dreams offered. They would take him back to times of beauty, of love. And he believed what he had said: if their love had been an delusion, it was more than enough. 

_Meluion, wake now. It is only a dream._

The tiara of stars crowned his head, a blackness which caught of glints of light here and there like watered silk. Under it his eyes glowed violet.

''Vanimórë!'' The exclamation was half-sob, half exhalation of relief as Elgalad drove upwards into the waiting arms. His lips parted eagerly, to drag love into his very soul.

A stench of hot metal, fire...the mouth under his formed a smile and then struck, teeth biting. The illusion dropped away as he tasted blood, and Elgalad recoiled in horror. Pale hair gleamed as Sauron threw back his head and laughed. It was a disquieting gesture, so like to Vanimórë's own idiosyncratic head-toss. The westering moon painted silver over high-formed bones.

''You were a truly rich lode for my son to mine. You bleed love as a comb drips honey.''

Elgalad felt as if he had woken from one terrible dream to find himself in another. Reflexively, he lashed out, booted foot snapping against Sauron's jaw. He heard, through the blood-pulse in his ears, the hiss of sword from sheath, whirled to face the soldiers.

''No,'' Sauron said thickly. ''Only I am permitted to touch this one.'' He lifted a hand to his lips. It came away smudged with black. ''Shall I let you hear the cripple scream?''

Elgalad froze. A hand twined in his hair and jerked him back.

''No? Then I think, for that, you will serve me on your knees — as Vanimórë did. And he was very, very good.''

_No!_

"Then she will die, and I can make the dying last some time. No? Then get down on your knees!'' Sauron's eyes flared red.

The scent of cool grass rose about him as Elgalad knelt.  
_My love, I know that thou didst endure this. _

There was nothing old about the erection which sprang free, nothing elderly about the Maia at all now. The hands which pressed down on Elgalad's shoulders were strong, thigh and belly smooth and hard. His fingers tightened, drawing Elgalad forward, the tip of his cock nudging at his closed lips. revulsion rose in Elgalad's throat, and he battled it, trying to imagine this was Vanimórë. He felt the smooth glide of flesh into his mouth, tried not to choke. 

_ I will not break for Sauron. Vanimórë never did. _

He began to work the erection. He too, was skilled.

_ I want him. _ Ungoliant swelled, bloating in Sauron's mind with the hunger this act aroused in her. 

_No. _ Sauron clamped his hands on Elgalad's skull as the rhythm increased. He could have compelled any of the soldiers to service him, but this was Elgalad, whom his son (for all Sauron's taunting words) loved. It was so much more satisfying.

The men ignored them, although Ungoliant's presence stirred desires in them. Male lovers, anyhow, were not uncommon within the strictly regimented legions of the Imperial armies. They had regarded the silver Elf with fascinated lust, but they had their orders, and Pallando wielded more power within the Imperium than any save the Emperor; the soldiers would not question anything he did.

Sauron groaned. Musky essence filled Elgalad's mouth. Hard hands held his jaw closed.

''Swallow.''

Convulsively, Elgalad forced the seed down. It tasted like Vanimórë's, salty-hot. 

_Very good. Now, go back to your dreams, Meluion. Perhaps your lord will come to you again. _

And Sauron laughed. ~  



	22. If It Was Not Love, It Was Close Enough

~ **Eregion**

 

~ The old city of Tharbad had been rebuilt by Elessar. Wars and floods had destroyed the original town long ago, but now great arches crossed the turbulent waters, and the city thrived. Traders were coming up-river from Lond Daer, and both roads and river were busy, as if the merchants were birds who came with the Spring.

Hooded and cloaked against casual glances, the Elves passed through the city. Vanimórë remained to obtain such supplies as they would, need before rejoining them.

''Would no-one have seen anything?'' Gil-galad asked. ''How many travelers have we asked and questioned since we rejoined the road? Either they never came this way, or are hidden from sight.''

''They will be hidden, but they are not vanished. They have to travel as ordinary people.'' Vanimórë spoke as he checked saddlebags and unstoppered a wineskin. 

''Look there.'' Fëanor pointed. ''Eldarion's banners.''

The entourage approach Tharbad from the south. Eldarion always came to Annúminas in the Spring, and this year he was early. He often met Elladan and Elrohir here, and then would travel on to Lindon. Those on the road pressed back, but not with fear. Their eyes were bright, excited. The prince was popular.

''I will have to tell him,'' Vanimórë said. ''Before he goes to see Vanya and finds only a grave. They lodge in the city. Let us camp here for now.''

***

Eldarion had dismissed his retinue and was enjoying a goblet of Red Harvest after bathing, when without announcement, some-one said behind him: ''I need to speak with thee.''

Hearing that voice, rich and as mellow as the wine in his hand, Eldarion felt the blood shock through him. He turned, knowing he was smiling.

''Merely talk?'' he teased, and then the expression on Vanimórë's face sent his heart plunging. He put the wine aside. ''What has happened?''

''Vanya is dead, a few days ago.''

The Prince's eyes showed pain, but even as he would have spoken Vanimórë went on: ''It was her heart. Sauron went to Lindon. He has taken Elgalad.''

''_What?_'' Eldarion stared, then: ''_Sauron?_'' He lowered his voice to hiss. ''How?''

''He has been hiding for many years, using the form of my most powerful councilor.''

''Pallando? Hells, Vanimórë! _How could you not know?_''

''Ungoliant is with him. She hid him, and Pallando was no match for my father. He used his powers little and become something of bureaucrat, an intriguer...I used him for that very reason. He was intelligent.'' He laughed suddenly, a sound which held no mirth. ''How very humiliating. He must have threatened Vanya, for there was no sign that Elgalad fought. She could not reach me or any-one else; Unlight smothered her cries as it hides Elgalad from me now."  
"But know this: as Vanya died, Lúthien came for her; she was seen by Gil-galad and Tindómion. They saw her as she should have been, perfect and straight, and flawless. In the end, her kinswoman took her home.''

Eldarion's dropped his head. He found himself caught against a hard body, held fast.

''We buried her, although the King may wish to have her body moved to the Hallows in Minas Tirith.''

''I must send him a message,'' Eldarion said. Tears were burning in his eyes like sea-water. ''Or you could. It would be quicker.''

''I have no time now. I must find Elgalad. Sauron is only prolonging my agony and his by holding off the death stroke. I have to find him, Unlight or no.''

Eldarion stepped back, his lips gripped together, and nodded.  
''I will accompany you.''

''That is out of the question,'' Vanimórë said like the chop of a knife. ''Fëanor, Maglor, Gil-galad and Tindómion are with me.''

''Then you have kings and princes already, why not one more?''

''I have a damned sufficiency of royalty, but I do not know know how strong thou art, or how he could affect thee. I will not carry thy body back to Osgiliath for thy father to bury.'' His words bit. ''We have much to do, thou and I, before the end. We go east, Sauron may be headed to the old orc-holds in the mountains.''

''I believe I can handle orcs,'' the prince said coolly. ''Elgalad is dear to me, despite what is between _us._ And Vanya... I am coming.'' His eyes snapped. ''I am Elessar's son. I have tracking skills of mine own to equal any Ranger, and my warrior arts are not negligible!'' He strode into the bed-chamber and flung back a chest. ''You are not the only one who has a score to settle with Sauron!''

''Thy place in that line of grudges will have to come after mine and the others, and I assure thee I will leave nothing undone.''

''To the Hells with that. He caused my niece's death, and Eru only knows what he has done to Elgalad,'' Eldarion looked over his shoulder. "I either come with you or follow you."

"Noon, then," Vanimórë capitulated. "I do not even have time to argue. We wait south-east, beside Glanduin. I do not wait."

***

Vanimórë did not believe Eldarion would come. There was no-one who could prevent he himself doing whatsoever he wanted, and so swift had been their departure from Lindon that no-one in Gil-galad's court knew where their king had gone. Eldarion however, was a prince who ultimately fell under the command of his father. Those he journeyed with would not allow him to ride off alone.

He was correct, up to a point. Even as they mounted up, several riders approached from the town lead by Eldarion. Those with him were soldiers dressed for travel. They had a tough, competent appearance.

''It has been agreed that I must be accompanied,'' Eldarion said.  
_It was either this or strip them of their rank and dishonor them, and even then they would have followed, I think. _

''Loyalty is always commendable,'' Vanimórë murmured as the men formed a tight group, eying the Elves with fascination. The king sent messengers to Lindon regularly, but there was an unwritten agreement that men would not otherwise enter the kingdom. 

''Very well,'' Vanimórë's voice, pitched to carry, reached all of them. ''Has the prince told thee whom it is we seek?''

''No,sir.'' The oldest man among them, a tall veteran with black hair, answered. ''Some-one who has kidnapped a friend of his.''

'' Indeed, and like Mithrandir who was a friend to King Elessar, this one has powers. We do not even know where he is going, but we have guessed he will head for the mountains. We search for signs of travelers, but now we will make some speed as they are days ahead of us at the least estimate. There are — or were, six Imperial soldiers, an older man robed in blue, and an Elf with silver hair. They will have left some sign of their passage.''

''Sir, why would this ...wizard head for the mountains?" the soldier asked. ''There is nothing there save Imladris, and few know the way there.''

"The mountains have housed evil for a very long time, and there are still orcs who breed there.'' Violet eyes lifted toward the Towers of Mist. ''Magnificent, no? But in the Wars of the Shaping of Arda they were raised by Melkor to hinder the riding of Oromë the Hunter, Araw, as thou dost know him. The tales are true. Ever since they have been a place where evil things have found a home. Thou wilt know of the Balrog, Durin's Bane, under Moria?''

There was a mutter from the men. All had heard that story. Their King had seen the dread demon of fire, although there were some in these latter years of his reign who thought the tale an exaggeration.

''Moria,'' Tindómion mused.

''There is rumor that the folk of Erebor wish to return there,'' Eldarion said. "But none have as yet. As you say, it still carries a name of terror.''

''Yes indeed.'' Vanimórë's eyes narrowed. ''Come. We ride.''

***

The pool that had housed the beast called the _Watcher,_ glinted sullenly in the late noon, the water dull as fogged metal. Tiny ripples lapped the shore; they had an unhealthy, viscous sheen.

They had left the horses. A sure-footed pony could have picked its way through this land, but the tall horses were more suited to the open roads.

''They will be there when you return,'' he had said smoothly.  
Ungoliant was becoming ever more difficult to control, and he needed some sort of sop for her.

Elgalad recalled Legolas speaking to him of this place, of the Doors of Durin. He had said that whatever had been in the water had pulled rocks down behind the fleeing Fellowship and buried the doors. There had been no other way to go but through.

Something in the water...

He could not summon fear, only deep within burned a steady loathing, clotted with grief. His eyes remained on the boots which walked before him as they edged around the small space of rock between the cliff face and the pool.

If the gates had been blocked, he thought, they were no more. Something had cleared the doors.

''Yes,'' Sauron murmured. ''I have not been altogether idle while I served the God-Emperor.''

The soldiers followed, stone-faced but uneasy, their boots tapping on the slick rock. One sent a skitter of scree into the pool.

'Be careful,'' Sauron chided, eyes on the water.

Elgalad glared at him. At each halt he had serviced Sauron with his mouth. He had not been raped yet, but that would come, and he was too bound to Vanimórë to suffer violation. 

_Vanimórë survived through hate, but he told me once that love motivated me. He was right. But I certainly can hate. _ He could hate the mocking malice of the lavender eyes, too like Vanimórë's, the derision, the contempt.

_...never loved you. He used you, innocent and witless enough to not see what he was, what he is._

Grey eyes blazed as they lifted.

_He cannot harm Vanya. _

He did not know where that thought had come from, but it was clear as a mort* to him. Something swelled in him, a scalding bubble in the cauldron of despair.

_I am a fool. There were people there, close to the house. They would bring the children back to eat...she would be found. They would send to Lindon, and one of them could speak with Vanimórë. He would be able to protect her from Sauron. He cannot touch Vanya, not now, and Ungoliant cannot hide her, for she is here. _

None of this had been about him at all, he knew. He was simply a part of the old battle between Sauron and his son. He was the lure. 

He whirled, dragged the sword from the sheath of a soldier behind him, and thrust out. Sauron swayed aside, and the blade sliced through the flesh at his hip. Elgalad dived into the pool.

Sauron's curse was echoed by a scream; the sound of a horse in fear or pain.

''Get him out,'' Sauron ordered.

''Something has panicked the horses, my Lord.''

''Wolves doubtless. Now get him out!''

***

The tethered beats had been feeding on the grass in a little hollow when their heads lifted, snuffing the air. A black mist, moving very fast against the southerly wind, hurtled toward them.  
And then something emerged from it, as the thing within shouldered itself into the world. Monstrous, eight legged, exuding the stench of death, Ungoliant sprang.  
The horses bolted, and with a great bound she jumped, breaking the back of one of them. The taste of blood inflamed her as she injected her venom, then she raced in pursuit. She would have caught the last fleeing horse had not a cry of command from Sauron halted her.

***

The water closed over him. It was dim, as if sediment were stirred up from the bottom, or waste had been flung into it. The once sweet, stony waters of the Sirannon were polluted. Above him, the wavering light receded as Elgalad allowed himself to sink.

_Vanimórë. Forgive me. I was bait._

Purple eyes looked into his, arms reached out to hold him, and he smiled as he sank, bubbles of air rising from his mouth.

_If it was not love, then it was close enough._ ~

  


  


  
  
** Chapter End Notes: **  


  


* Mort - the horn call at the onset of a hunt

  



	23. A Path of Greater Darkness

~ The soldiers waded into the pool, heading for the point where Elgalad had vanished. Their boots slipped on the slimy stones and then they found the drop-off, where the shoreline dipped suddenly. Perhaps a subsidence or cave-in under the original course of the Sirannon had caused this, and allowed the Watcher to creep from lightless waters beneath the mountains.

The pool began to seethe and boil like a cauldron. One of the men shouted as something rose from it, long, pale green as decay. A stench belched out as if its movements stirred foulness up from the lake-floor. It struck like a snake, winding itself about the man. He disappeared with a shout.

_Ungoliant! _ Sauron shouted. _This thing will have your food _

She came from the north, covering the ground at a dreadful speed. The soldiers, shocked, and panicked, waded from the water, which sprayed as great legs came down. The Watcher reared up, showing its head, beaked and hideous, but over it now loomed a thing more dreadful. One of the spider's legs, wired with hair like sword-thorns, was seized, and Ungoliant loosed a scream of rage as her own beak flashed forward. The water darkened, and the Watcher convulsed.

***

The riders who approached drew an exclamation of surprised pleasure from Eldarion and Tindómion. They had come from the north, and been in view some time. Now converged upon them, identical movements brought their horses to a smooth halt.

''Uncles!'' Eldarion rode forward to clasp their hands, followed by the Noldor and Vanimórë at the last.

''We felt her die,'' Elrohir told them.

''It was sorrowful and beautiful," Elladan said. "And so we grieve, yet are comforted.''

''_I_ am not comforted.'' Eldarion's voice was chill. ''She need not have gone so soon. And Sauron has Elgalad.''

Vanimórë said to the twins: ''This is not on the route to Tharbad or Annúminas, what brought thee here?''

They exchanged a glance. "A dream," Elladan said. "We saw Vanya, beautiful and healed. She was walking toward the Doors of Durin." Elrohir continued: "They were whole, although we know they were buried when the Fellowship passed through. We came to meet you, and to look on the doors of Moria, but our journey veered east and then south, since we learned that the rains had made _Nîn in Eilph_ impassible this year. The marshes and standing waters have flooded the land.''

''Yet had we gone a little further to the north to ford Glanduin where we usually do, we would have missed you,'' Elladan finished. ''And as we rode, our dreams and thoughts have become yet more heavy. The sun seems shrouded.''

''Moria,'' Vanimórë hissed. ''We cannot be far behind them. Even my soldiers must needs rest, and will have paused to hunt. Come.''

They rode in near silence after that, scanning the land. It was the twins who first found the sign of horses, and a small camp fire. It had rained two nights before, and the hoof prints were clear in the earth.

''They are not so far ahead.'' Maglor's eyes gleamed an eerie silver in the last light of the west.

Of them all, Tindómion and Gil-galad alone had traveled to Ost-in-Edhil and Khazad-dûm. Vanimórë had been here also, but as a warrior under Sauron when his forces ravaged Eregion. He rode ahead, scanning the ground, then pulled up, listening.

His horse raised its head and whinnied.

The call was answered, and the sounds of hoofbeats came to their ears, not at a walk or trot, or even the controlled gallop of a horse pushed to speed. This was the headlong flight of an animal running for its life.

The beast came into view: a proud bay, lathered and sweating. It only came to a halt when the Elves and Peredhil approached it, speaking softly. It shivered as if flies were landing upon its skin, and even as they felt its fear, from over a rocky ridge came the terrible scream of a dying horse.

''What in the Hells...?'' Eldarion demanded as terror began to infect their own mounts.

''Leave them!'' Vanimórë flung himself from the saddle. 

He was off at a sprint and, reaching the hogs-back of land which hunched itself into his path, jumped straight at it, going up like a mountain goat.

He looked down into a valley filled by a lake of dull water. There was a narrow strip of shore, and to his right the Walls of Moria. They reared above the east shore, smooth and vertical, their feet founded in a mass of rubble. And walking toward them...Sauron was tall and pale of hair, almost Elven in appearance.

''_Annatar,_'' Gil-galad's voice was vivid with hate, the name a curse.

"Elgalad." As Vanimórë spoke, he saw Elgalad pause. He had a heartbeat to wonder where Ungoliant with her shielding Unlight was, before Elgalad moved in a blur of speed. He wrenched a sword from the soldier behind, and thrust it into Sauron's back. Sauron staggered, and Elgalad, clean as a water-bird, dived into the lake.  


Vanimórë did not even mind-shout, there was no time. Something was approaching from the west, a shape of gloom that resolved itself into a gigantic spider-creature.  
  
Water plumed up as it hit the shallows. A broil of black vapor spread across the lake, concealing the monsters which fought there. 

Vanimórë jumped into the thickening mist, and hit the water.

It was as if he swam in ink. _Unlight_ He upended, forced himself down. Something slicked past him, eel-like, currents eddied around him as the Watcher sought to drag Ungoliant into the deeps.

_Elgalad!_ Desperation exploded through him. He could use no power here. Any concussive shock could stun and kill Elgalad if he were not already dead.

A force buffeted him as the Watcher heaved. Something bumped against him. Weed slithered over his face; it gleamed faintly in the blackness. Not weed. Hair. Vanimórë reached out, wrapped an arm about Elgalad's body, and kicked toward the surface. He came up into brilliant light, heard Ungoliant scream as she turned to confront the one who challenged the Unlight.

Fëanor stood above the lake. His eyes were Silmarils. The sword of _laen _ was white fire.

And he, like Vanimórë, jumped. Straight into Ungoliant's darkness.

***

Water gushed from Elgalad's mouth. His first intake of air was a groan which broke into coughs. His throat and chest were afire. He struggled to breathe past spasms of choking. Arms held him, and he struggled. 

''I am here,'' Vanimórë soothed.

And Elgalad was borne up on a wave of fierce joy.

_I know I did not kill him,_ he said silently. _But I hope I caused him some inconvenience. _

''I am sure thou didst. And others have the same desire as thee.'' Vanimórë nodded his head toward the Doors of Durin. There was a flash of armour as the last of Eldarion's soldiers vanished within.

They both turned then, to watch Fëanor. 

***

_ Well met!_ Fëanors leap took him straight into the gloom, onto Ungoliant's reeking back. She reared up, seeking to dislodge him. He balanced without effort, smiled his contempt, and drove the _laen_ blade down. It sliced through the hide behind the head, and Ungoliant bellowed, heaving. Ichor the color of pitch burst out as Fëanor withdrew the sword, and somersaulted backward, landing in the shallows.

His eyes were blazing diamond. The vapor swirled as something flashed down, and he sidestepped like a dancer, plunged the blade into the globe of one eye. Acrid fluid cascaded down, hot on his flesh. Ungoliant jerked back. There was a wail of agony, of rage.

''Come to me!'' His voice rang out like a battle trump.

Rank air buffeted him. Something huge and dark drove down. The High King of the Noldor braced his long legs, wrapped both his hands about the sword hilt, and stabbed up.

_"Go back into Night!"_

Blood gouted. Fëanor's muscles locked as they held Ungoliant's weight. She spasmed, trying to pull herself from the impalement. The black vapor sucked inwards. There was a convulsion of movement, and then she was gone.

The fog dissipated. The pool sank into gelid calm; the Watcher fled. Fëanor lifted his head, met a pair of violet eyes. Vanimórë saluted him with a flashing smile.

Elgalad coughed, felt himself pulled gently to his feet. Fëanor with a grimace, washed the burning blood from his body and hair, then gestured toward the entrance into Moria.

''Canst thou walk?''

Elgalad nodded once. The three of them began to converge on the Doors. Fëanor, reaching them, set his hands on Elgalad's shoulders, kissed him hard on the mouth, then said, ''Ungoliant is gone for now. Shall we seek vengeance?''

They entered the darkness of Moria. ~

~~~


	24. Mind Mazes

~ The soldiers had lit fagots, left one burning at the bottom of the steps.

_Hast thou been here before?_ Elgalad asked as they ascended the stairway. He was wet, breathing quickly but holding himself with pride. 

_ No, my dear,_ Vanimórë slapped a knife hilt into his palm as they climbed. _ But Tindómion and Gil-galad have, and so has my father. There are none now alive who know the true immensity of Khazad-dûm. We must go carefully. _ He rested a hand on Elgalad's back. _I am sorry, my heart. _

_The blame is not thine._ Elgalad pressed nearer to him, and his sigh seemed as deep as his soul.

_ Thou wert no coward._ Vanimórë waited for the question which he knew would come. Elgalad was assuming, since Vanya had not been mentioned, that she was well. And indeed she was, in a sense, though that would not be what he wished to hear.

_I should have realized that some-one would have found her._

_ Sweet Vanya, _ Vanimórë thought. 

_Sauron has vanished like a snake into a hole, _ came Maglor's voice.

Elgalad had seen Erebor, and it was impressive, but a child's building compared to Khazad-dûm. The torchlight showed archways, branching tunnels, immense pillars. He could imagine the strong hands of the Dwarves carving and smoothing this place that had lasted three Ages, that might outlast anything now built upon Middle-earth. 

_Why have the Dwarves not come back? _ he wondered.

_ It is a vast undertaking. Now that Durin's Bane is gone, it is less dangerous, but there are still orcs, and Sauron must have had trolls clear and dig out the Doors. It would still need an army to retake it. They prophesy, the Dwarves of Erebor, that one day they will return and Khazad-dûm will once more be filled with the sound of music and hammer on stone, and be filled with lights. _

They came to a wider space where four passages lead off, one right, one left, and one straight on. A guard chamber was situated here. The torches had been stamped out and the light came from a blue-white Fëanorion lamp. Maglor, who held it turned, strode into Fëanor's arms, followed by Tindómion. They had not doubted Fëanor would defeat Ungoliant, but still, and always, had to reassure themselves he was with them. Gil-galad gestured to the small chamber. Ropes of orc filth indicated that it had been used as a latrine not so long ago.

''No more blood stains,'' he mouthed. ''He must have stemmed his wound. See, here they fail.''

"He heals quickly," Vanimórë said, very low, so as to raise no echoes. "Now, if I were a fool I would go on to the East-gate, but Sauron will tarry to seek out the orcs here. He will promise them plunder and booty from the Vale of Anduin. He knows me, but I also know him."

''Canst thou sense him?'' Maglor asked.

''I can sense he is alive, furious, in pain and...afraid.'' The words held a faint smile. ''But that is all. The question is, do we continue? This is the Dwarrowdelf. I do not exaggerate when I say that a Man or Elf could easily become lost here forever. It would not be easy even for me to find my way out, and we may run into orcs.''

''We are so close.'' Maglor's voice was taut.

''We could perhaps find fresh water, but we have little food, and nothing to eat here," Vanimórë warned. 

''Art thou trying to persuade us to go back?'' Tindómion demanded incredulously. ''When Sauron's blood is still wet on the rock at our feet?''

''Never, ever leave thyself with no clear retreat, unless there is no other choice,'' Vanimórë replied. "I should not have to tell thee that."

''Thou shouldst turn back,'' Fëanor agreed. ''Vanimórë and I can find him more easily, and with less risk.''

''Do not say that to me.'' Maglor whirled on his father. ''I have the _right!_ ''

''And I say I will not lose thee in this place,'' Fëanor flamed back, then reached out his hand. ''I know what this means to thee.'' His eyes moved to Gil-galad. ''And to thee also. But we do not know this place. Better to drive him from here, into the open.''

''He is more likely to lie low with the orcs,'' Tindómion said. ''That is what he has ever done, is it not? Hides, draws minions to him, grows in strength.''

''He cannot claim Mordor or rebuild Barad-dûr,'' Vanimórë stated. ''When he founded Mordor there was none to prevent him. There is now.''

''We cannot let him vanish,'' Maglor's eyes caught fire from the lamp, and burned.

Eldarion nodded. ''He cannot have gone far.'' He glanced at his men, who clearly did not like this echoing empty place with its stairs and passages, the huge, all-encompassing darkness which lay thick and black beyond the light. They were still shocked at the sight of the Watcher and Ungoliant. They could not quite grasp that it was Sauron they had followed here. Vanimórë gauged their mood with one expert glance.

''I do not know how well Sauron knows Moria, but I think we can spare a little time to discuss this.''

''We have Miruvor,'' Elladan said. ''It will help.''

In unspoken agreement they set down their packs. All save Vanimórë and Fëanor took a sip of the Cordial of Imladris. None were hungry, but saw the sense in eating while they could, and unwrapped their store of dried meat and fruit.

''Should there be light?'' one of Eldarion's men asked. ''I do not see how we can find our way without it, but will it not draw anything here as a candle draws moths?''

''If anything is close it will,'' Vanimórë replied. ''But the orcs were used to inhabit the more easterly regions. The lands west were long empty, but there were mannish settlements along Anduin which they would raid at times.'' He raised a brow to Tindómion who nodded.

''Yes, Legolas said that it was not until they came to the chamber of Mazarbul that the Fellowship were attacked. It seemed that the orcs had been inhabiting those regions close to the East-gate. But we would be fools to believe Sauron has not left watchers. I think we can assume, after what happened at the pool, that our presence is known.''

The soldier cursed pithily, and a smile flicked across Vanimórë's face.  
''Never mind, Captain, the stuff of which legends are made, no?''

''Yes indeed, sir, I would just rather this legend be backed up by several thousand warriors,'' retorted the soldier. Vanimórë laughed as he sat down, flung an arm about Elgalad's shoulders. ''This surely cannot be...Sauron?'' the man added.

''Trust me.'' Vanimórë turned to Elgalad. ''How dost thou feel?''

''W-well enough,'' Elgalad murmured. 

_I know what he made thee do. _

Elgalad stiffened.

_The shame lies on him, no-one knows that better than I. There is no time to speak with thee as I would, or show thee how he lied, but I will. _

Elgalad did not answer but the long sweep of his lashes touched Vanimórë's neck as he closed his eyes. He said, _I know he lied. But he, Ungoliant so close...my mind was darkened._

_I know._

From the stance of their bodies Fëanor and Maglor were arguing, whip-fast thoughts flashing back and forth, conveying both emotion and words in a mental communication which was both clearer than speech and far more complex. Elladan and Elrohir were speaking quietly to Eldarion. The Prince's head shook briefly, stubbornly, once then again. Tindómion watched the east doorway. Gil-galad stood close to the north tunnel. Their eyes met at times. Vanimórë's thoughts roamed the dolven rock in search of his father's aura.

"Running again? Hiding again?" he murmured. "Dost thou never learn? Remember thy forging of me, as thou didst call it? Thou didst never give me anywhere to run to." 

Eldarion said, sharp with command: ''I order it. Return to Tharbad. Messages must go to my father. He must have troops east and west on alert for orcs.''

''But, my Lord — ''

''This is an _order,_ Triwath. We know not how many orcs have bred here since the War, how many Sauron could summon. There are homesteads and farms in the Vale of Anduin which depend on us.''

The man closed his mouth. Relief and reluctance showed equally on his face.

''The way back seems clear,' Vanimórë said. ''I have heard naught. But I will lead thee.''

''I will c-come.'' Elgalad rose to his feet.

''No, stay here. I will not be long.'' Vanimórë touched Elgalad's face, kissed him lingeringly, as if drawing Sauron's touch from the soft mouth, then drew back, and shouldered his pack.  
_Even here, even now, I could take him. My light in the darkness. What are we doing to each other?_

~~~

The mens' footsteps seemed loud, echos running into the darkness which pressed on them and conversely, suggested massive spaces, halls carved into blackness, tunnels from which anything might emerge. Vanimórë went before them, silent as a cat, holding the lamp high. As the light vanished, Elgalad looked away, bowed his head, face hidden by the fall of his hair.

''Do not,'' Maglor said, drawing him about. ''Do not retreat from us.''

''I was a f-fool.'' The grey eyes searched his face, moved to the others.

''We know what Sauron did to thee.'' Fëanor came to his side. ''And despair is the road to madness.'' He glanced at Maglor, who stared back, thinking of Maedhros self-immolation, his own virtual dissolution.   
"If we had time I would show thee that fire burns despair to ash.''

''We do not need a fight between Vanimórë and thyself at this moment,'' Maglor said, and his father smiled. So, after a moment, did Elgalad. 

''What happened to Ungoliant?'' Eldarion asked. "If I never see anything like that thing again, I will live content."

"She was wounded and fled," Fëanor told him. "She cannot be destroyed, but she can be diminished. I imagine she is somewhere here, in the dark."

''What?'' Eldarion demanded. ''Thank-you for that thought.''

''Forgive me," Fëanor glinted. "But she would be drawn to darkness. She will probably find some deep hole, and nurse her wounds for a long time before hunger drives her out. Sauron cannot hide under her Unlight now.''

''In this place he hardly needs to.'' Eldarion glanced around.

''True. I find myself impressed. I would give much to see it as it was in its glory.''

''I did,'' Tindómion spoke up. ''When there was commerce and friendship between Ost-in-Edhil and Durin's folk, Hadhodrond was magnificent and alight with ten thousand lamps.'' He looked at Gil-galad, whose face stirred with a smile. ''I walked this way when it bustled with Dwarves, with gold about their necks and woven in their beards, their hands always at work...'' He shook his head, and a silence fell as they imagined.

Maglor drew his fingers gently down Elgalad's hair. The silver head came to rest on his shoulder.  
''A pity that blade only wounded Sauron, but we must not let thee have all the glory.'' He felt the reluctant choke of laughter. ''Still, it was well done of thee. I wager it hurt. What made thee move, then?''

''I thought there m-must surely h-have been time for some-one t-to call to Vanimórë," Elgalad said, with a irritated gesture at himself. "Once the women brought th-the children back from play, they would have brought food to Vanya. Her speech is l-labored, but they understand her, and some-one would have been sent to t-tell thee.'' He looked at Gil-galad, who nodded and said, ''We were riding to see thee, Istelion and I, we were not far.''

''I knew that she w-would be protected once Vanimórë came. I w-was a fool. Sauron used me to draw his son, and I d-decided I would not be the lure.'' He bit his lip hard, and Maglor whispered, ''I know, Meluion. I too could see no hope, nothing but he, in the end.''

Elgalad said gratefully, ''Yes. I knew he would kill m-me. I wanted to do the deed m-myself, not let h-him control even my death.''

Their ears were alert for the sound of any-one approaching, but nothing disturbed the enormous silence. There were vast caverns beneath the Ered Luin now, but always they were alive with the sound of people working, singing, Elves and Dwarves both. Here it was as if the ancient darkness had always been.

***

There was no warning for the soldiers, just the icy slide of serrated blades. Their death cries were smothered by clawed hands. Turning in the circle of the light, Vanimórë glanced briefly at the corpses, the gloss of blood pooling on the stone. 

These orcs were not the smaller mountain breed; they were great Black Uruks out of Mordor. Their eyes glittered feral and hungry, but they made no other move, and shuffled quickly aside as a tall figure approached. The blue-white light caught pale hair, eyes that gleamed red as coals in a brazier.

''I was beginning to wonder if thou hadst truly gone to ground,'' Vanimórë said, with a small, taunting smile. "Yes, I _much_ prefer that form to Pallando's, father." His teeth shone white, and their laughter joined. It was silenced abruptly by the wild, shared kiss...~

~~~

 

  


  
** Chapter End Notes: **   


  


According to drafts for the Appendices of Lord of the Rings, long after the War of the Ring, Moria was reclaimed by Durin VII, but it is not certain Tolkien meant this to stand. For the purposes of this story, Moria is still much as it was during the Fellowships journey.

  



	25. Starfire In Darkness

~ ''I needed time to deal with the wound your lethal little toy put in me,'' Sauron said acidly as they came apart.

Vanimórë clicked his tongue. ''I have no sympathy, father. It never pays to underestimate the enemy. And never let one walk behind thee, even unarmed. Elgalad _is_ a warrior, after all.''

''I thought him cowed by me, and by Unlight.'' Sauron stood breast to breast with his son. "He proved rather resilient. Perhaps there is more to him than beauty. There must be, to keep you entertained. I should have tried him myself, though his pretty mouth was _most_ skilled, I will admit."

"Servicing thee would not destroy him," Vanimórë said, flat. "Raping him would. He would have begun to die, and slowed thy progress. I gave thee as much time as I could."

''I have to be thankful that the damned Noldor can hate so well, and did not balk at entering Moria.'' Sauron slid a hand behind Vanimórë's head, drew their lips together again in another ferocious kiss. ''Truly, I was concerned for a time, my son. We did indeed forge better than even I knew.''

''Beware of the two edged blade, father,'' Vanimórë smiled. ''Our little excursions here have been fruitful; those thou didst want are now here, but they are warhounds thou wouldst take by the tail.''

''And Fëanor.'' Vitriol scoured the name. "Unfortunate, that."

''I expected it. If Maglor were to come, so would he.''

''I count on thee to deal with him,'' his father said.

Vanimórë inclined his head. ''I will. And I will enjoy it.'' 

''He is the bones thrown where none can see.''

''Yes, those are always the most interesting, are they not?" his son teased. "He will withhold his power for Maglor's sake. That is for thee to ensure, And then I will kill Fëanor. I have to. He is too dangerous, and is enough like me to challenge me. But there is nothing that lives I cannot kill.'' There was no boast in the words, just a statement of fact. Vanimórë continued, ''I have promised thee what thou may have. Do not ruin it with thine ambitions. The Void and Ungoliant should have taught thee that. Thou canst enact thy vengeance on the line of Isildur and Eärendil, and re-live thy slaying of Gil-galad if thou doth wish. And I believe thou didst rather enjoy thy taste of Tindómion in Ost-in-Edhil. But wait until I have dealt with Fëanor."

''Is all gone to plan to keep Glorfindel occupied?'' Sauron asked, pacing.

Vanimórë folded his arms.  
''I leave nothing to chance. There has been an attack on the borders of New Cuiviénen. Years of drought in the Palisor steppes have forced the tribes to move, and they have heard of rich lands, wealth beyond measure. The Noldor prepare for battle. Glorfindel is with them. An Elven scout was captured. The Nabuli tribe are superstitious and...quite barbaric. They put the scout to death – imaginatively. It has caused a backlash of fury among the Noldor. Yes, Glorfindel is rather occupied.''

''And when he finds out?''

''Thou doth worry too much, father. Remember, he and I cannot battle using power; we are balanced. He may not unseat me, nor I him. And he knows as well as I that Fëanor becomes too dangerous.'' Vanimórë quirked a whimsical brow. ''I will hide thee while thou grow to thy full strength, and thou wilt take over the rule of some city. Just a man, at first, like any man I choose to govern and rule my realms.''

"The Harad," Stipulated Sauron. ''I like the heat. Or Khand, perhaps.''

''Very well,'' his son agreed. ''And now — ''

''What of Elgalad?''

''Content thyself with what I will give thee." The tone was iron. "He would not live."

''And does that matter?''

''Thou didst have thy...favorite, father,'' Vanimórë said, darkly smiling, ''So do I. Elgalad is mine.''

***

''He has been gone too long.'' Maglor's voice broke the silence.

''And we have unwanted guests,'' his son snapped.  
  
The hiss of blades flashing from their sheaths was the only sound for a moment, until distantly came the thud of nailed boots on stone.

''They are behind us,'' Gil-galad said. ''I hear naught this way.''

''_Behind_ us? Where in the Hells is Vanimórë?'' Eldarion demanded.

Elladan cried out: '''Ware arrows!'' and gave him a push as black-feathered quarrels sang through the darkness. ''We are targets here, fish in a barrel!''

''Come,'' Fëanor said. Another arrow whined past him, and snapped from the stone. ''Through the east arch. Their arrows will be spent, and they will have to come within sword range.''

'' 'Ware the stairs,'' Gil-galad warned. A wide flight of steps plunged down into darkness. All was quiet beyond. They melted back each side of the arch, pressed against the stone as the orcs thundered through — and ran straight into a wall of blades which sheered through their steel breastplates. Some fell cut clean in two; arms and heads bounced wetly down the steps.

An axe cleaved toward Elgalad who carried only a knife, and he drove it into the gap between breastplate and greaves. The uruk stiffened, toppled back, letting fall the axe. Catching the haft, Elgalad was knocked down, tumbling with the dead orc into the dark at the foot of the steps. Ignoring the flaring thud of bruises bursting all over him, he hefted the axe, looking up.

_ Vanimórë?_ He imagined orcs hidden in the shadows, jumping out at Vanimórë, an axe like this splitting his unprotected skull...  
_No. He is too skilled..._

But the mightiest warrior could die, a lucky arrow, a blow...He thrust the thought away furiously.

''We need a more defensible position!'' The cry was Elrohir's. He ducked under a jagged blade, and sent the orc over his head. Elgalad leaped to one side as it struck the bottom, neck broken. He felt space behind him but could see nothing. He reached out until he touched stone, dragged his fingers along it, twice, thrice. They passed across empty air.

''Here,'' He called up. ''Down h-here.''

There was a momentary lull. The attacking orcs had their orders, but they were not stupid, even as the sweet and wild scent of the Elves made them ravenous with lust.

''Now,'' Elgalad cried.

''We have to go,'' Eldarion agreed.

''I will not run from filth!'' That flare of lightning was Fëanor's.

''We are not running, my lord,'' the prince corrected. ''We are...regrouping.''

''Ah. A Nice distinction.'' Fëanor cast a glance at his son, whom he would not lose. No, nor the others.  
''Go,'' He cried and a blast of light which was from no power but the fire of his own will lit the stairs.

***

The floor of the chamber had been lain with wolf pelts. A brazier burned, taking the musty chill from the air. A poor enough dwelling place for a man accustomed to marble halls, but the skins were sumptuous, the pallet bore coverlets of soft wool, and the herbs thrown on the brazier were sweet.

Sauron smiled, backing as his son paced him, matching his steps like a hunter shadowing its prey. It was an odd reversal of roles, strangely stimulating, but when he set his hands on the wide shoulders Vanimórë sank gracefully to his knees.

It seemed a long time since he had stood over his son, the violet eyes blazing back at him in hate and defiance. Vanimórë's long lashes were lowered. A smile curved his mouth, teasing. Made a god, he was stronger now than Sauron, yet the Ages of servitude moulded him back to obedience. Yet — 

Vanimórë looked up, and Sauron saw what he had been waiting for. Dread and lust sparkled in those beautiful eyes. Sauron had felt the same kneeling at Melkor's feet. This was how it should be.

He was still unsure what had unmasked him to his son. One day when the scribes and councilors had been dismissed, Vanimórë had sat back, put his booted feet up on the table and murmured, ''When are we going to stop playing this game, father? Interesting though it is, I feel it has run its course.''

Sauron felt shock knife through him as he gathered his powers to flee, and felt himself caught in a mind hold of steel. For a moment he expected destruction. He knew just how much grief Vanya's curse and death had caused his son. He expected his spirit to be ripped from Pallando's form, so diminished that it would take Ages for him to regather strength, if indeed he ever could. 

''I will use any-one. If they are useful to me, I am willing to overlook certain things but thou wilt cease to provoke men into evil acts or I _will_ tear thy soul from this form. Slowly.'' Vanimórë swung his legs to the floor and rose lazily, stalking across to his father. ''We have worked together, perhaps we can continue to do so. World empire. Does it not sound better than the nothingness that Melkor desires?''

''It is prophesied that he will return,'' Sauron said flatly, warily.

''Indeed. And who will be waiting for him?'' Vanimórë spread his hands. His smile could have chilled the deep desert. ''So, whom wilt thou ally thyself with, Mairon?''

***

Sauron's hands clenched in the rippling hair as he felt the hot mouth close over him, licking and pulling before pulling away. Vanimórë disrobed, and Sauron watched the tremors which shook through each hard muscle, shudders of need, fear of pain, as he offered himself. With one deep thrust Sauron buried himself, heard the faint gasp of breath before his own hard pants filled the chamber. He rode into his son with savage triumph, and felt Vanimórë push back. His head tossed, his back arched in submission, and Sauron pounded more violently until with a cry he came. His release was shattering.

''I truly have missed thee, my son.'' He smiled like a great cat that has fed well. ''And now, I think we should see what thine erstwhile companions are doing.''

''Yes.'' Vanimórë rose with the suggestion of a wince. ''I think we have given them enough time.'' He cast a look, rich with lingering lust at his father which roused him again, and then drew on his clothes.

***

They were trapped. The orcs were before and behind them now, and they could see better in darkness than the Elves. These uruks bore no bows but heavy maces, great swords and axes. They were goaded on by a will stronger than their own, and hatred of their ancient enemies. They approached slowly, as if savouring the moment. 

Fëanor felt the power striking through him, the energy that sends lightning from air to earth, and knew if he unleashed himself he would kill more than the orcs. He laughed bitterly at this paradox of power, then threw regret aside. He had not needed power in his old life. He did not need it now.

Shoulder to shoulder with Elgalad and his twin, Elladan murmured, ''Beleg Cúthalion wields an axe with as much skill as his bow. You will honor him by using such a weapon.''

''For Beleg,'' Elgalad flexed his fingers about the haft. "And for th-thee, all of thee."

And then there was no time to speak, or even to think.

There seemed a moment when the orcs hesitated, and then they surged to attack. Elladan and Elrohir fought like mirror images of one another, a poem of grace and deadliness, Eldarion battled with the ferocity of Húrin Thalion and the speed of his Elven blood. The Noldor cut down the first ranks of their foes with swords which shone blue-silver as Gil-galad's eyes, then trod over the twitching bodies to reach more.

Elgalad felt the axe bite through armor and dragged it free. He ducked, reversed the stroke, and took off a head. Halting the momentum with main strength, he whirled to hammer the axe-head deep into a thick-set thigh. He knew that he must constantly attack; he was unarmored, in close confines and could not parry easily. 

A star had exploded under the earth. Its rays were weapons which killed in shears of light. Fëanor's eyes shone brighter and brighter with rage. The orcs began to retreat, crowding into those behind them, creating havoc in their own ranks as they clawed and snarled and shoved. Then, as if on some unseen signal they broke and ran, leaving a litter of dead.

Fëanor's face which was a mask of blood. All of them were splashed by black, running into their own red. Elgalad's silver hair was weirdly striped by jet.

''Is any-one wounded?'' Fëanor demanded, flicking blood from his blade.

''Not seriously, I think.'' Elladan and Elrohir looked over the others. ''But orcs blades may carry poison, and we have naught to treat it.'' He raised his own cut arm to his face and inhaled. After a moment he shook his head. ''I smell nothing.''

''Nor I,'' Tindómion confirmed. ''And it burns after a short time.''

''We can do nothing whether they are poisoned or not,'' Gil-galad said. ''Let us go on while we may. We need to treat these wounds. But not here. We are too exposed.''

Wherever the orcs had come from, they seemed to have vanished like smoke. There was the faint, far-off sound of many running feet, then an oppressive silence. After a time, Fëanor put up a hand. They halted, opened their packs, sipped Miruvor, and used a little water from their skins to clean the wounds. The Peredhil examined Eldarion carefully, binding a deeper gash on his chest. Elladan gripped his shoulder.

''You do your father proud,'' he smiled before going on to Elgalad, who only raised his head when Elladan tilted up his chin.  
''He m-must be d-dead.'' His voice was barely audible.

''No.'' Fëanor looked around sharply. ''I would feel it had his body been destroyed, and so wouldst thou.'' His expression was deadly. ''He may be tracking Sauron. He could have been lured away and he does not answer, so we can do naught but go on. Gil, Istelion, does this way take us to the east? How long will it take?''

''Three days perhaps. I have been through only thrice,'' Gil-galad answered, and Tindómion nodded. ''Legolas said it took the Fellowship three or four days. They were not tarrying, though neither were they running, and they had the Hobbits with them. Even with our injuries it should take us less time.''

''Let us go on as swiftly as we may.'' Maglor pulled a knot tighter with white teeth. ''If Sauron is controlling the orcs he will send them back again and again.''

''Let him.'' Fëanor's voice was a naked blade. ~

  



	26. Chasms Of The Heart

~ Some limped, others bore stains of red under the bandages. But the Cordial of Imladris was both roborant and healing, and despite wounds their steps were swift. At times they heard, or thought they did, the sound of many feet behind them, but the running echoes distorted noise, and they saw nothing.

At length they rested, checked the wounds, sipped more Miruvor and ate. They were on a wide way now, which Tindómion said was the main path through Moria. It sloped downward at a gentle incline.

All was silent as they sat. The water was running low. They had heard underground streams and once a great torrent, but dared not spare time to search, and could not know that it would be clean when they found it. It seemed clear now that orcs had inhabited Moria since the Fellowship passed through. Any water might carry their filth, or the wash of mining.

A cut which glanced over Eldarion's upper ribs troubled the Peredhil. They called Fëanor across, who placed a hand on the wound. The Prince bit back a gasp as the throbbing pain of it was swallowed up in a fierce, clean heat. When the High King withdrew, the discomfort had faded.

"It will not fester,'' Fëanor assured him, and then: ''Thou hast done well, all of thee. I never knew the Edain. I scorned the thought of the Secondborn once, but no longer. And thee, all three of thee, I would have at my back in battle.''

A flush swept up Eldarion's face at this praise. The twins grey eyes smiled.  
''We are proud to be your kin,'' Elladan said. ''And your eldest sons harbored and loved our father and Elros.'' At that Maglor glanced around.

''My sons made errors of judgment but never in whom they loved,'' Fëanor smiled. ''Now, those who can, sleep.'' He walked across to Elgalad, lifted his axe, and weighed it. ''Thou hast some skill with this. I did not know thou didst favour such a weapon.''

"I do not." A pale smile hovered on Elgalads mouth. ''But it w-will serve me.''

''It already has.'' Fëanor rose. Elgalad spoke his name.

"Yes?"

"Canst thou f-feel him?"

Fëanor nodded. "Yes. He lives." He cupped the firm chin with one hand, stared into the water-clear eyes until colour rose in Elgalad's cheeks.  
"Neither of thee tread easy paths. Now, rest." His fingers drew unsettlingly tender, through the loose hair, then he turned away, positioned himself at the side doorway.

''This is not the way I would have chosen to re-visit.'' Gil-galad moved with Tindómion toward the east.

''Nor I.''

Their eyes met with an almost audible click.

''We have no time,'' Gil-galad murmured regretfully.

''And if we die there will truly be no time. I love to see thee like this.''

''Bloodied and dirty?'' Gil-galad lifted a brow.

Tindómion's brief smile faded. ''Aflame with war. I wish thou hadst told me thy death lay in Mordor. Tell me thou dost not feel the same about Moria.''

Gil-galad shook his head. ''I do not. And I had my reasons. Let us not dispute this again, not here.''

''We both had our reasons, for everything we did. For everything we do''

"And even though we did not speak of it, sometimes it was almost enough. Almost."

***

**Mordor 3441 - Second Age **

''Tomorrow at dawn.'' Gil-galad turned a cup of wine in his hands. ''The final assault. The last one. It has to be.''

The others had left. Tindómion and Gil-galad sat alone.

Seven years. So much attrition. A brutal, bloody war, many of the more lightly armed wood-Elves out of Lasgalen killed at the beginning on Dagorlad, not from lack of skill but through eagerness to meet the enemy, and their absolute refusal to march under a _Golodh_ king. Each day the death toll rose, Elves Gil-galad knew, many he did not, Men under the Númenoreans, from Rhovannion. First and Second-born died alike on Dagorlad, on the arid plains of Lithlad and Gorgoroth.

Tindómion laid a hand on Gil-galad's shoulder.

''Rest, sire.''

_I would not waste my last night with thee. _

The thought did not pass Gil-galad's eyes. He lifted his hand, gripped Tindómion's shoulder, loving him as he always had, a kind of fury to the passion. At times he he had been certain it was reciprocated and then, in a sudden retreat as behind a shield-wall, the Fëanorion would draw back. Yet in this place of war, and without need for words, they had been closer than ever in their long lives.

If Tindómion lived beyond this battle he would become the next high king. Or so Gil-galad purposed. Few knew it; the Fëanorion himself did not, but it had been witnessed and sealed in Lindon. There had been dissent, objections at the kingship returning to the Dispossessed.

"Who else is there? Elrond does not want it.'' And Gil-galad had pressed his seal into the blue wax.

~~~

''There is no desire for rest in me.''  
There was so much he wished to say, and so much he would not, for here the balance had been attained insofar as it ever could in this world.

''Istelion, if the end should go ill...''

''It will not,'' Tindómion said quickly. ''There is no end. Not for us.''

Gil galad raised a brow faintly. The Fëanorion eyes, which could become as opaque as polished mithril, gave nothing away — and said everything.

_ If my fate were not written, I would remind thee of that, Istelion. _

''I must find my father,'' Tindómion murmured. ''I have sworn it, and I want thee with me.''

''Swear to me not to attempt to kill him.'' Gil-galad's hands closed on his arms. ''Swear to me,'' he commanded, and saw the confusion of impulses: love, hatred, the desire for vengeance.  
''Thou wilt only — and rightly — earn the name of Kinslayer, and thou art so like him, so like that House. But do not follow in their footsteps.''

The fan of black lashes dropped; muscles clenched in Tindómion's jaw.  
''Then swear thou to me, Gil, that thou wilt be with me.''

There was silence. Beyond the pavilion came the sound of the great camp. The brazier hissed, cast flickering shadows over the walls.

''As the One wills,'' Gil-galad said at last.  
  
Something moved in the silver eyes. Tindómion nodded and sat, drawing the king to lie against him, head in his lap. His flesh was pale as a pearl against the ebony hair, his eyes closed for a moment. A hard, difficult emotion pushed upward into Tindómion's throat. So might Gil-galad look dead, and the thought of his star — _his_ extinguished by death was not to be borne. He rested one hand on the Gil-galad's breast, felt the deep, steady heartbeat. At last the long lashes lifted, and the brilliant eyes went blank with sleep.

Tindómion lowered his head, kissed the white brow, smoothed back a long tress of hair. He traced the perfectly cut curves of the mouth. It parted slightly, and warm breath dusted his skin, before Gil-galad's mouth closed over his finger, sucking it, biting the pad of flesh, a sensation both suggestive and erotic. Sparks lit Tindómion's nerves.

He let the Kings head slip gently down to the rugs. Almost he rose and walked away, but his heart was thundering with the touch, the sight of Gil-galad laying back in a cloud of hair. He went down on his knees, leaned over him. Their breath mingled, became harsh, hectic, as their bodies strove, moving in a primal hunger. There was desperation in it, ferocity. Gil-galad moved, flung Tindómion onto his back, hands wrenching at the buckles of his armor.

''Thou didst disturb my sleep, now I will disturb thy cursed _equanimity!_'' 

"I have never felt equable around thee," Tindómion hissed back.

''Sire, King Elendil's men have taken captive — '' Elrond's voice came from the tent flap, paused and went on, unperturbed: ''— men of the east who may have knowledge of the next movements of the Enemy.''

Gil-galad and Tindómion stared at one another, eyes and bodies locked.

''I thank thee, Elrond.'' Gil-galad came to his feet. ''I will come.''

***

** Moria **

''I will not lose thee again,'' Tindómion breathed, in Moria's tomb-like darkness. ''Not again.''

***

Maglor could feel the rock above them, immense, a weight of mountains. Fëanor's face was calm as a statue's. There was no fear there. It seemed an alien emotion to those beautiful features.

_What does Vanimórë play at this time?_ he asked.

_I cannot read his mind. I can only sense him. _ Fëanor's eyes were molten diamonds as he turned his head a little.  
_We will not end here. I vow this to thee._

Time passed. Eldarion slept, his breathing gentle, head propped against Elrohir's shoulder, but he came alert as a warrior does when he heard Fëanor speak.  
''They come from the north.'' His voice was cool as snow-melt as he drew the _laen_ sword from its housing.

''We fight?'' Maglor asked.

The high king nodded. ''We fight.''

***

''There is a reason I do not use orcs,'' Vanimórë observed as he trod silently down the steps, skirting and stepping over severed limbs, heads, a torso parted from its body. The bottom of the stairs looked like a charnal house.  
''They are vicious and filled with hate, but I have never known one fight to the death when it could flee. No glorious last stands. I much prefer Men. Apt to die for honor.''

Sauron followed his son. Behind him came ten tall figures. Armored feet squelched through blood and ropes of intestines without care as they came to the foot of the steps.

''They have their uses, my son. But Saruman, the treacherous rat, did have one or two interesting idea's.''

Vanimórë lifted the Noldoli lamp, drawing the hulking shapes out of the gloom. Each was over six foot tall. They were not unlike the Uruk-hai of Isenguard, but there was something more dreadful about them. They looked like Men taken and forced into Orcish bodies; two races cruelly merged. Massively muscled, a dark intelligence in their eyes, they wore black chain-mail which covered them from neck to feet. Their swords were huge, made to be wielded with both hands, and their bald heads were marked with tattoos of the Red Eye.

_I will teach thee to be a warrior, father. Then thou may dispense with such bodyguards. _ There was a flick of scorn in the words and Sauron's eyes blazed with anger. He heard the low ripple of mental laughter.  
_ What would we be without this hate, hmm? _ And aloud Vanimórë said, "They will give back to the bridge. Or rather, where the bridge was. There is no other way, and then I will deal with Fëanor, and thou may have thy...revenge.'' A smile lifted one corner of his mouth. ''But not until I give thee permission.''

"You are not my lord, _Slave_," Sauron flashed. "Whatever power you have been given, you are still not Ainu!"

''I am not Ainu," his son agreed. "I am a god. And thou didst make such a mull of things before, no? So now we do this _my _ way.''

***

All were wounded now, all weary save Fëanor. It seemed as if they were being deliberately pushed back, engaged, allowed time to regain their strength before being attacked again.

This was not how orcs waged war. Sauron must be behind it, herding them inexorably eastward. They had sustained fresh wounds, Eldarion bore smudges of exhaustion under his eyes, Elgalad was white as salt, mottled by bruises. He had stopped calling to Vanimórë. All he had said was that there was no bridge for them to cross any longer. It had been destroyed when Mithrandir battled the Balrog.

''I know,'' Elladan had replied. ''But we cannot go back, everywhere we turn we are met by orcs. What else can we do? If we chase them they vanish into tunnels like worms into their holes.''

Elgalad acquiesced with a shrug. What else indeed could they do? Pursuing the orcs was futile; they did indeed melt away, threatening to lose those who followed in the endless passages of Moria.

The door they passed through was wide, and steps lead downward. Signaling for them to halt, Fëanor walked down them, raised a hand. Now they could see where they had finally come to.

Before them lay the great chasm which could only be crossed by the slender span of one narrow bridge, an ancient defense of the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm. In the wars of Arda's shaping, some titanic force had split the rock as cleanly as a god's axe. As they approached, they sensed a vast emptiness. Air currents rose, smelling of darkness, water, stone. Beyond, the route lead through the First Hall, and to the Great Gates which opened on the east. There was no way across save for a bird. The bridge had cracked, its span lead only to a fall into the chasm.

There was a brief moment when they looked at one another before the silence was shattered by the sound of heavy steps. As one, they turned, backs to the brink of nothingness. A figure detached itself from the orcs and walked in silence toward them.

''We seem to have come to the end.'' Vanimórë's smile glinted. ''The truth is, I need my father's experience. But he does demand...payment.''

Elgalad felt himself freeze to icy stone.

''No,'' he whispered. ''I do n-not believe ...''

''Of course thou wouldst not, my dear, trusting fool. But do not be concerned, I have given orders for thee to be left untouched.''

Fëanor sprang at Vanimórë, silent and lethal. Maglor and the others sought for an opening in the sudden clash of sword on sword. Elgalad felt a high, alien fury sweep the shock from him. He fought on a wave of white hatred. 

Fëanor and Vanimórë circled, engaged, spun apart, eyes locked on one another as the pace of the fight became so fast, so savage, that even the watching Elves could not follow it. The strangely musical and continuous chime of the blades formed an odd counterpoint to the snarling grunts of the orcs. Sauron watched from the shadows, his guard about him. He smelled the rank sweat of excitement on them, and lifted a hand.  
''Not yet.''

Vanimórë disengaged, spun in a circle, met another flurry of blows. He was retreating now, slowly, steadily — an expert observer might have said deliberately — leaving himself room to flip gracefully back. His smile was pure challenge as he stepped back into air. His scimitars hissed into their sheaths. He opened his arms.

And Fëanor accepted. He leapt forward, and they met like lovers over the abyss. Vanimórë's lips came down hard on Fëanor's as they plunged like a comet of fire into the chasm. ~


	27. It Seems I Win This Game

  
_Father! _ Maglor's mind-shout crashed through the aether like a whip, and then there was no time.  
_We were wrong, all of us, Elgalad, father, Glorfindel, even_ I _ trusted him! _

It was his last thought before battle claimed him. 

The Elves gleamed in the dark, the only light now that Fëanor had gone — and _that_ could not be given room in the mind. All thought ceased, leaving a body that moved in combat, anticipating attacks, reading every twitch of muscle, every gleam in the eye. Parry, duck, thrust into flesh, withdraw, kick. Both blade and body were a weapon. There were no rules of chivalry in such a fight, no code of honor. Kill, or die.

****

And so they fell, locked in an embrace like death. Cold air streamed their hair upward in plumes blacker than the darkness, and as they plummeted they kissed, savage breaths lost in the rush of wind.

Fire erupted from them both, the shock wave of sound echoed and re-echoed from the unseen walls, concussive waves bouncing back and forth like thunder. Below them the flame was reflected in a lake motionless as a pool of pitch. It hissed in fury as they struck it, and the water became liquid gold, throwing into shocking relief the groins, arches, pillars of rock which had been sunless since Arda was formed. Then, slowly, the light went out.

***

The uruks lay dead, pools of blood under them. Noldor and Peredhil stepped back, looking as one to the edge of the chasm.

''Revenge is indeed sweeter when cold.''

The voice came from the dark. A Fëanorion lamp was uncovered, illuminating the creatures standing there, huge and hideous. But the voice had not been theirs. It held a familiar smooth beauty. Maglor recognized it first, and through the weariness pure rage spiked.

''Remember my orders,'' Sauron said to his creatures.

Bind them, do not kill. Vengeance was for him, no other.

And so the warriors pushed through exhaustion, finding a well of strength few ever discover in themselves. Sauron disappeared behind the advancing beasts. 

Eldarion slipped on blood, going down on one knee. The creature looming over him looked surprised for an instant when an axe crashed into his arm. He snarled even as a dagger was flung end over end and entered the pit of his eye. He fell. Elgalad pulled Eldarion to his feet, both leaped apart.

''Not the fair one,'' Sauron shouted. He dared not risk his son's wrath were Elgalad slain by accident. He wanted Vanimórë to deal with Fëanor and return quickly. Wounded, weary still his enemies fought with terrifying lethality.

Elladan and Elrohir shared a wordless glance, then dived and rolled, coming up, slamming their swords into the legs of two half-orcs. As they fell, the twins stepped back in unison, and leaped, the whole weight of their bodies behind the flying kicks that sent the beasts over the edge. Their screams faded as the depths swallowed them.

Maglor, Tindómion and Gil-galad fought together, a unified storm. Blood ran from a deep cut on Maglor's brow, catching in his lashes. He heard nothing, saw nothing but blood, the enemy.

''_Fëanor!_'' His father's name was a war-cry. ''Istelion, Gil! With me!''

As one they sprang forward on the leading edge of their blades. The last effort.

Elgalad's axe caught in bone. He wrenched at it with both hands. Something slammed into the side of his head, and he staggered, whirled and kicked out. The half-orc fell back, but more were converging on him. When his kicks opened a gap, another took it. His axe was stuck fast; he fought without weapons, but slowly the ring around him closed. They were not fighting back, they simply pressed in walls of muscle and armour. There was only one way, and it lead to the chasm...So be it. He kicked up and out, striking the nearest half-orc under the chin. Its head snapped back, and Elgalad gathered himself.  
A hand grabbed his hair and wrenched him back. A heavy arm went around his neck, and he felt the icy kiss of metal.

"Cease or he dies now." Sauron's shout rang out. Slowly the orcs backed away. He could not speak, but his mind screamed, _No,_ as he watched the others throw down their swords.

''Bind them. Hands and feet.'' Sauron loosed a breath he had not realized he had been holding. ''Tightly,'' he added.

****

''After I have killed them then thou may have them," Sauron said.  


There was a stir, mutter of guttural voices.

"Not you."  
  
Elgalad stared at the brush of long robes as they paused before him, then turned his head to the others. Eldarion was closest, then the twins, Gil-galad, Tindómion and Maglor. All were on their knees, faces of stone under the blood, eyes catching the light in eerie, brilliant flashes. Around them stood at least an hundred orcs. Behind them was the brink of the chasm.

_And so we do indeed come to the end,_ Elgalad thought and strangely, felt no fear, only a cold rage and a bitter disappointment that the one he had loved had turned back to the dark. He was astonished at the power of his hatred.

''Descendant of Isildur.'' Sauron savored the names as he walked. ''The sons of Elrond.'' He paused. ''Ereinion Gil-galad. It has been a long time. Son of Maglor. Remember Ost-in-Edhil? And Maglor.''

Tindómion struggled, muscles swelling against the ropes. One of the half-orcs stepped forward, bringing the edge of his sword to Maglor's neck. Two pairs of silver eyes glared at Sauron in unblinking hatred.

''Cease or I will have them rape him, then your lover.'' Tindómion stilled, shaking with impotent fury. Sauron tilted his head. ''Well, one thing I will say, my son delivers on his promises. He promised me this." A smile flashed, twin to Vanimórë's. "Do you know, he even fooled me for a time.''

Elgalad closed his eyes. He felt he might weep if he looked longer on the faces beside him, one superimposed on the other like the lovely, hard profiles upon a coin, shining with defiance even at the end.  
He would not live on after their deaths. Sauron might spare him. His own soul would not.

_ But there is no escape from memory, even in death._

His lashes lifted and he stared blindly into the darkness. The hulking shapes of the uruks were only faintly illuminated by the lamp. They seemed to be dissolving into the darkness leaving only the light, and Sauron.

"With thy mad father gone there is no-one to save thee," Sauron told them. "Even now the Noldor are engaged in battle east of New Cuiviénen, and fight there against great odds. Glorfindel will come too late. Still, one must not waste time.''

Maglor's eyes flashed sideways to his son. None of them had called upon Glorfindel. (Why not?) They did now. 

There was no answer.

Sauron set down the lamp, reached out a hand. One of his bodyguard's stepped forward with a mattock and long chisels. Elgalad did not understand, until Sauron walked around the prisoners, and stood behind Maglor. His fingers toyed languidly with blood-clotted hair, then he took a chisel in one hand, placed the edge of it against the top of Maglor's skull.

''_No!_'' Elgalad's voice cracked. "No. _Please!_"

Eldarion groaned.

Maglor's last words encompassed them all with love and undying defiance of the Dark.

"Hush now. Istelion, my son. I love thee." And silently, _Oh, father!_

Elgalad longed to close his eyes, to shut out the terrible sight of the chisel driven through the skull, Maglor's beautiful face made a mask of pain, stripped of dignity before death took him. Yet he would not look away. He must witness.

And after Maglor would be Tindómion, Gil-galad...how could they come to this end? He thought his heart tore, bled inside him.

The darkness wavered, seemed to move. 

Something flowed, smoothly and gracefully as a cat, over the lip of the chasm behind Sauron, and straightened.

The mattock rose to its apex. Long hands reached out, closed about Sauron's wrists. He cried out as a knee drove into his back. His knees buckled, and an arm clamped around him, dragged him away. A kick sent him violently forward, and he hit the ground hard, rolled. s he picked himself up, he saw Maglor's face blazing like a lamp.

Fëanor was sheened with water. He was incandescent.  
_ Silmaril incarnate._

Sauron stumbled back, calling out for his son. There was an odd sound from the darkness. Four round objects landed in the light, rolled to a halt at Sauron's feet.

The heads of the half-orcs still bore snarls.

''Yes, father?'' Vanimórë smiled as he walked past Sauron, sliding a knife from his thigh-sheath. Methodically he cut the bonds. Sauron found his voice, shouted orders to the orcs.

''I sent them away,'' Vanimórë said, looking up. ''I offered them more than you did. And I said I would impale them if they did not obey.'' Sauron stepped back, and Vanimórë was behind him. ''Thou shalt be given one chance.'' A scimitar flashed through the air, landed at Sauron's feet.  
''Fight as a _warrior!_''

''You _lied _ to me.'' Sauron sounded as if he could not believe it.

''Yes," Vanimórë agreed. "I wonder where I acquired that particular talent."

Sauron had not fought for uncounted years. He turned away instinctively, came up against his son's chest.

"_I_ was never permitted to run, was I _father?_" Vanimórë lifted a brow. "Thou shouldst have let me train thee, as I suggested. But _I_ was always thy weapon, was I not?"

Perspiration dampened Sauron's hair. His eyes flicked from side to side and with a goaded roar, he flung himself forward, grasping the scimitar. His blows were a wild flurry which Fëanor blocked with languid ease, before spinning away, and then Maglor stepped forward. He beat aside the slender blade, followed it with a punch across the jaw which sent Sauron reeling into Tindómion.  
Everywhere he turned he was met with a weapon. Only Vanimórë stood, arms folded, until his father slipped to his knees, breath tearing through his mouth.

''It seems,'' he said. ''I win this game.'' He looked up. '' All of thee have reason to kill him. Whom shall it be?''

Maglor strode forward. He was blooded from head to foot, filthy, bruised, weary.

''Do any of thee contend my right?'' he asked.

Tindómion glanced at Gil-galad who shook his head. His voice shook with the passion of relief. "Father." And, on a feral snap: "Vengeance is thine!"

''Fight me!'' Maglor flung back his blood-soaked mane of hair, eyes raging silver. ''On thy feet and fight me, _craven! _''

Sauron spat at his feet, and was sent sprawling by a backhanded slap across his face.

''Thou didst put me in torment, raped me.'' He stamped down on one wrist. Bones snapped. There was a howl of pain. He took a handful of the rich robe, hauled Sauron to his feet.

''How many died screaming by thine orders, Mairon, from Utumno to Dol Guldur?''

As he spoke Maglor held Sauron upright and slapped him again and again. Blood burst from his mouth. His head lolled and, at last, Maglor ceased. He turned, dragged Sauron to the edge of the crevasse.

''_Damn you._''

Sauron lifted his head, smiling through a smashed mouth.

The sword-stroke took off his head. It balanced for a heartbeat then fell, and the body tilted back, tumbled into the black nothingness. 

_Until next we meet, my son,_

One side of Vanimórë's mouth lifted a little.  
_I will be waiting, father._ ~  



	28. Bitter Justification

 

  
~ Maglor could feel the presence behind him like a fire. He turned. Fëanor's eyes were almost gentle. He drew Maglor into an embrace of love so profound that it became the world.

Elgalad moved slowly toward Vanimórë, who was as wet as Fëanor, hair in black coils to his knees.

His punch took Vanimórë right on the point of his jaw. The soft grey eyes were hard as glass as he turned away.

''Would you care,'' Elladan asked with commendable control. ''to explain anything at all?''

With a hand to his chin, Vanimórë said, ''Of course. But let us first see to thy wounds.''

He vanished into the darkness, returned with a pack and two skins. The others moved away from the chasm, unstoppered wine and water. The wine was Dorwinion; it eased away exhaustion, soothed the pain of their injuries.

''What about the orcs?'' Elrohir asked as he tightened a bandage on Eldarion's thigh.

''They have gone down to the deeper levels. They will not disturb us.'' Vanimórë said. He wrung out his hair, pushed it over his shoulders, stood a fingers' breadth from the drop. ''When I found that my sister had been cursed to live all the Ages I believed her dead, I vowed Sauron would pay." His lilting voice was flat, as if retelling an old, old tale that had nothing to do with him, instead of everything. "He fled when we destroyed the body Morgoth possessed — my body. Unlight shielded him, and I did not know where to search. But he was never a fool. He found one place where I would never think to look for him: Pallando, a Maia like he, though of less power, who became my chief adviser. He betrayed the Khagan of Chey Sart, helping me to conquer that land. A toadeater and traitor, yet clever. Perfect for Sauron's purpose. He always had a mind for order, and I think he simply became careless. He spoke to me one day, and his tone was one I recognized, not Pallando's oily respect, but a master to a slave. To me, Sauron's Slave.''

''Why didst thou not kill him then?'' Maglor demanded. 

''Because that would have left me feeling somewhat _unsatisfied,_" Vanimórë bit through his teeth. "And I am used to controlling myself. I held my hand. I hid my suspicions, I watched and waited. We played a game. Oh, I did long to kill him, Maglor, but so didst thou, and others, no?''

Maglor said, "Yes." Tindómion, coming to him held him, bent his head into the heavy hair, now cleansed of blood.

''I buried my hatred deep. I do have experience of that." Vanimórë looked away, into the black nothingness at his feet. "I said we could work together, rule the world. I admitted I needed him. Then he began to push, as I knew he would. He ruled too long to be content with a lesser role. And he wanted payment for his help." He turned again. "All of thee: The descendants of Isildur, of Eärendil. Gil-galad, whom he had slain once, but whom had returned, and was once again a King. And thou, Maglor. He had plans for thee, and I ruined them.''

''And you allowed him to kill Vanya?'' Eldarion's voice came as a hot rasp.

Elgalad came to his feet.  
''Vanya is _ dead?_''

''I am sorry,'' Gil-galad said. ''We reached the house not long after — we were lead there, Elgalad, by a vision. We saw Vanya die, we saw her met by Lúthien, and Vanya went to her, walking. She was called home. It was humbling to see. She said to tell thee that she loved thee.''

With a cry, Elgalad spun away. Eldarion went to him, limping. Vanimórë watched, face expressionless.

''I know,'' he murmured. ''I loved her too; yet I rejoice that now she is free. I truly believe she is.''

There was a silence in the greater silence of Moria. Elgalad's shoulders heaved once and then braced.

''I allowed my father the freedom to do as he wished,'' Vanimórë continued. ''I had to show him I trusted him. And I had to play a role. Once Elgalad was taken and Vanya dead. I had to ensure no chance thought reached Ungoliant. My hatred would have exposed me to Sauron. Our minds have always been linked after all. _Any_ thought, _any_ emotion from me had to feel authentic, to whomever might sense it, Fëanor, Glorfindel especially.'' Complicated sadness crossed his face as he looked at Elgalad's straight back. ''Sauron thought I played the part very well, especially in my rage at Vanya's death. He claimed he had no hand in it, blamed her crippled body. In a way, that was true. She would not have lived long, thou knowest this. Her heart was weak."

"It is true." Elladan admitted. "We did what we could, but she was often in pain."

"To all outward appearances," Vanimórë said. "Sauron _was_ Pallando. There are always spies, in any kingdom, and there are two _Palantiri_ in Minas Tirith.''

Eldarion said: "And we have used them."

''I promised Sauron Regency of Middle-earth and...myself, but he believed that I was so long a slave that he could turn the tables as it were, that he could rule again, and I would take my former place, despite my powers. It might take time, but he had that.''

''Why here, why Moria?'' Gil-galad asked, after a long moment.

''He had been exploring it. It is easily defended; it would serve him as a strategic base. We both came here, took control of the orcs. Many of those who were not destroyed in the War of the Ring found their way here.''

''What of Glorfindel, and the war he spoke of?'' Maglor asked, but his tone was milder. Fëanor's hand closed on his shoulder.

''There _has_ been some displacement of the Nabuli tribe, indeed,'' Vanimórë told him. ''The tribes have moved eastward to more fertile regions, but not as far as New Cuiviénen. It was I who told Sauron there was war. And Glorfindel knew of my plan. He was not entirely happy with it, but he trusted me, as none of thee did.'' His eyes flashed a teasing smile to Fëanor. ''Save one. Sauron was afraid of Fëanor, and I agreed to kill him.''

''Father?'' Maglor asked. Fëanor nodded. 

''It was hard, but perhaps I understand now, why the desires of the moment must sometimes be sublimated to the will. Sauron had to believe he was controlling all our movements, had to believe me destroyed when I fell." He drew his hands through his son's hair, working through glossy tangles. "What troubled me was that he would renege on his promise to Vanimórë, and order the orcs to kill thee all at once. They were told to drive thee to the chasm. Also, my own willingness to retreat — I was unsure if thou wouldst believe it of me, think that I was acting out of character."

Maglor shook his head with a ghost of his mellow laugh.  
''It did seem somewhat...strange.'' His eyes flashed to Vanimórë, who raised his brows. ''But thou! Thou art a cold-blooded..._ bastard_ in the truest meaning of the word. Thou wert willing to have Elgalad raped...''

''No. Never.'' The two words fell like stones. ''He was ordered not to.''

Elgalad looked up. He tugged the wedding ring from his finger, and threw it at Vanimórë's feet. The gem winked somberly under the dried blood.

''Thou hast so little faith in me?'' Vanimórë asked.

''Perhaps I would have more faith in thee if thou didst not use us all as if we were mere pieces on a _Tar _ board!" Elgalad said without a hitch in his words. "I thought of thee each time I serviced him, how_thou_ hadst been his slave. I made myself endure, and I did, until the end. But Vanya! She was _expendable?_ And the others? I thought Maglor would die, that I would have to watch the others slaughtered, their bodies defiled and devoured...'' A shudder passed from head to heels. Elladan stepped to him and put an arm about his shoulders. ''Couldst thou not have prevented him from hurting Vanya, at least?''

Vanimórë said softly, ''Yes, I could, and Sauron would have fled under Ungoliant's shroud and I would have lost him again. And he would have begun his own games anew, making me chase all over the Imperium whenever I heard rumor of blood sacrifice. Vanya's death was a release, Elgalad, and a glorious one.''

''She was _ afraid!_ I could not even say goodbye.'' Elgalad's eyes were luminous, hard. "Eru, thine intrigue and mind games..." His laugh was raw. "Perhaps I cannot accept that the _greater good _ demands sacrifice. So be it. I have been a fool, Vanimórë. I loved thee with all my heart. Sauron wondered that I could love thee. I wanted to tell him that I loved thee because he did not. But perhaps he was right, perhaps as thy father he knows thee better than I ever could.''

Vanimórë picked up the ring and rubbed the blood from it.  
''Very well,'' he said too mildly, and, "We must go."

''There is no bridge,'' Elrohir said after a long, uncomfortable moment. ''We knew that, but we could not go back, we were blocked each time we tried.''

''That was supposed to happen, Sauron wished thee to end here. No, we will have to go back. Do not worry; I have spoken with Elessar. He is sending troops up the Vale of Anduin. The orcs will be drawn out of Moria and smashed, and then Durin's folk may return. Khazad-dûm will be needed in the times to come.''

''We have to go back?'' Eldarion grimaced. He had felt contradictory dismay and relief at Elgalad denunciation of Vanimórë, and was ashamed at his turmoil.

''Nothing will trouble us. The orcs were never truly under Sauron's control. I have promised them raids on the rich settlements of the Anduin. They go to prepare. What I do with thee is not their concern." Vanimórë jerked his head. "Come. There are places to rest along the way. Sauron ensured that when he came here he was comfortable."

Vanimórë lead them to a small chamber. A brazier was lit, the floor covered in pelts. It was warm. Their wounds were washed again, and the Peredhil took curved needles, threaded them and closed the deeper cuts.

There was no sound save the his of the burning coals. The room was almost cozy, and the warmth and wine brought down the final onset of weariness. All save Vanimórë and Fëanor slept. Elgalad lay between Elladan and Elrohir, Maglor beside his son, Gil-galad next to Tindómion with one arm across him. 

A goatskin half covered the Fëanarion lamp; its rays lit the wall and created a soft light within the room. Beyond the doorway the passage, groping into blackness, was still as a tomb. Vanimórë leaned his shoulder against the arch, and looked out.

Fëanor turned his head after a time, and their eyes met. In their depths shone twin images of a streaming fireball plunging into black, abyssal depths...

~~~

The water was cold as frozen iron, untouched by light since the making of the world. Like a fire arrow, the two entwined bodies struck its surface. Power shocked through it, plumed it upward in boiling steam. They hung together as if lifeless for a moment, then both kicked up.

It seemed a very long way. Vanimórë had no knowledge of what might live in such a place, but if some hideous kin to the Watcher dwelt here, he had no time to fight it. Their heads broke the surface and they swam, came up against stone, raw and icy, a rough shore. Dragging themselves out, they coughed up bitter water.

''I will meet thee.'' Vanimórë came to his feet. ''Thou canst do this?''

''I _will_ do it,'' Fëanor affirmed. Vanimórë nodded, and was gone. No sound attended his departure; perhaps he used power to become stone, mineral, tiny air pockets, the infinitesimal shift of rock particles.

Fëanor jumped, his fingers digging like steel pins into the rock. He began climb like a lizard.

~~~

_And so?_

Vanimórë's profile was impassive, beautiful. Perhaps that was at the root of Sauron's defeat, thought Fëanor. He had wanted his son, and it had made him blind to the deeper game Vanimórë played.

_Oh, Sauron is not so sentimental._ The answer was tinged with wryness. _He thought I would hand him an empire, thought me accustomed to serving him, to being a slave. The things we hate, as much as those we love, have power over us._

_How far didst thou have to go before he trusted thee? _Fëanor knew.

Vanimórë's head turned. His eyes were empty of the maddening mockery that so often danced in them. They were opaque, dimensionless.  
_All the way,_ he said. ~

~~~

  


  
** Chapter End Notes: **   


  


* Tar - King; a board game

  



	29. A Poignant Freedom

  


It was an near-silent journey. As Vanimórë had promised, nothing disturbed them but the oppressive darkness. They were alert, thought they heard steps at times, but knew that it was their imagination, nerves worn thin by the edge of death.   
They had lost any notion of time, but when they emerged from the west door it was mid morning, the sun riding in a sky blue as a thrush's egg. The lake was silent and they skirted it quickly, climbing through a tumbled country of rock and heather.

At sunset they reached a hollow where silver birch fretted the air with new-opened leaves. A clear stream danced, swollen with spring rain.

It was a pleasant spot, and of one accord they stopped, and lit a fire. Vanimórë hunted, and returned with four grouse. Wine there was in plenty, brought from Sauron's chamber in Moria.

They bathed then, finding a pool where they could kneel, allow the icy water to tug through their tangled hair and cleanse their bodies.

The moon was an argent shield. The fire seemed tiny in the emptiness of the land. Stars opened above their heads, breathing in the mild south wind.

Vanimórë stepped up to a sawtooth ridge of rock, and looked east. In that greater emptiness, seemingly divorced from the earth, the snow-clad shoulders and peaks of the Hithaeglir appeared as remote as the Moon. From the camp floated the murmur of voices, a ripple of soft laughter. Only Elgalad had been mute since his outburst in the mines. His face remained white and inaccessible. He knew that Vanimórë could have saved Vanya. His nature was not calculating enough accept the loss of one life to save many. He was in shock, was grieving. And was not looking to Vanimórë for comfort.

_Is this it? Have I finally driven thee away. Can I indeed change fate? _

***

Tindómion watched the stars. His body ached. He did not care. They were alive. He had time to think, to tell over the past days, to wonder why he had not guessed something was afoot. But they had, he realized, been given no time to think. They had been moving swiftly or fighting, and all paled against the last terrible moments: Sauron's appearance, Vanimórë's apparent betrayal, Fëanor's fall into the abyss with him, their own imminent deaths. The memory snapped horror through him. He glanced quickly across to his father.

_I love him. I always did. All those years when he was just a dream, a voice in the wasteland._   
As if he heard the words, Maglor lifted his head, eyes catching the firelight like mirrors. Their shared smiles were grave, rich with love.

A hand touched Tindómion's hair. Gil-galad sank down beside him.  
''I thought I would have to watch thee die,'' he said, low.

''I have never felt so helpless, save when I could not reach thee in in Mordor.''

''I have _never_ felt so helpless, _Nárya._''

Their lips met. They came to their feet. He saw Gil-galad look over his shoulder, and turned. 

They were all there, Maglor, Fëanor, those eyes shaming the moon, Elladan and Elrohir, Eldarion. And Elgalad.

There seemed nothing to question. 

They were not gentle with one another. They took one another with a ferocity veined all through with love as they affirmed life. The moonlight painted them in silent glory, illuminated their limbs, the ripple of hair, the expressions of passion, of pain, of rapture. Again and again, with lust and with love, they devoured one another until, in the darkest time before the dawn they lay entangled on the bruised grass. Men were not the only kindred who sought relief in sex after danger and battle. The Elves were of the world and its eternal life force sang in them; a different melody, an alien one. They were alive who might be dead. Nothing had been certain and it had come so close at the end. Too close.

***

The morning brought sun, warmth to the hollow of the land.   
Elgalad, braided his hair, eyes on the swirl and light of the stream.  
Vanya's death was a hollow place within him. He had known she must die. She had never known true health, and he had watched her become weaker, but he had hoped, and hoped too, that when she passed it would be gently, in her sleep. Yes, they said Eru had sent for her, and that was some comfort, for no Elf knew where Mortal souls journeyed at the end. And yet...  
And yet. Vanimórë had decided she could die in terror.  
The love he felt he had been born with had twisted into a cold, cold fury. He raised his hand and looked at the bare finger where the ring had rested, and his back teeth locked together.

Lost in his own thoughts, he started when the twins knelt beside him, eyes brighter than the morning.

''Would you like to come back to Imladris with us?'' Elladan asked. ''We return there after meeting Elessar in Annúminas.''

Elgalad thought of the waters and gardens of Imladris. Long ago, Vanimórë had said he would find a place like that for the both of them.

"Yes," he answered firmly. "I thank thee."

Elrohir touched his face.

"Good," was all he said. 

***

The grave was simple, green turves in a quiet garth. Already, white niphredil were a delicate snow-dusting on the soft grass.

Elgalad rose. He imagined Vanya somewhere, in a land not unlike this, yet more beautiful, running, laughing, long hair streaming behind her.

Sorrow enwrapped him, a yearning for something lost all his life. He did not know what it was, could forget it when he was with Vanimórë, but not now, facing a life without him.   
He did not sleep that night but walked under the spring stars.

Elessar came not long after, and said that Vanya's would be disinterred, moved to the Hallows, to rest with the great of Gondor. Elgalad did not object. He knew it mattered little where her body lay. He and the king shared a quiet grief, and remembered the joy Vanya had exuded, as a flower gives forth fragrance.

And after, as summer burgeoned, Elgalad rode to Imladris.~

~~~


	30. Dark Light

~ The black mane tossed. The stallion reared, teeth fighting the bit, muscles trembling with stress. There was a shudder of rebellion, then reluctant submission. The rider savoured it, then let the power he had mastered go free. The reins slid loose through his fingers. A deep throbbing pulsed through him, and about him.

Wine shivered ruby in two goblets beside the great bed. Vanimórë leaned over, unbuckled the bridle, and handed a cup to the flushed, silver-eyed stallion, who drained it in one long swallow. Vanimórë leaned toward Maglor, kissed lips swollen from the delicate bit.  
''Is there peace now, beauty?''

''There would have been more if thou hadst gone with thy father," Maglor said, gold voice gone rough. "Then, I think there would be peace.''

Vanimórë laughed delightedly. ''Thou art such a bad liar. I love thy hate, thy need and thine unwilling _love._ ''

Maglor made a scornful sound. ''Hate I will admit to. And need. But thou knowest better than any that there can be lust without love.''

"Oh I know it." Vanimórë ran one hand lazily down the taut chest. ''And I recognize hate when I see it. What thou feelest for me goes too deep for mere hate.''

Maglor watched the secret smile deepen in those violet eyes. He said: ''What of Elgalad?''

''I would wrestle fate a while. If he did not love me, he would live.''

''Dost thou truly think he will live without thee?'' Maglor watched the expressionless face. ''I know what he is, what he does to thee. ''

''Knowest thou what it cost me to play that game with my father?'' The question was unexpected. Maglor blinked, said, more quietly: "I can imagine."

''I thought I would go mad, yet it had to be done. I _knew_ that Sauron would force Elgalad to service him, and not just to show his claws to me. Elgalad is too tempting. And then I had to make my father believe that I hated him, needed him." The sleek brows drew into a frown. "Do not think he never gave me pleasure. He knew exactly how to drive me crazed if he wanted to. I blocked him from my thoughts; he could only feel _emotions_ through our mind-link. It pleased him that I had not changed so much, that I was still the same son one who had been his slave, his toy. Yet Elgalad has the truth of it: I did play a game with all of thee, and I had no right to use any piece but myself. There is nothing I can say. I cannot go to Elgalad and ask for forgiveness, because I would do it again.''

''I know thou wouldst.'' Maglor drew back from the disturbing touch of those graceful, deadly hands. 

''I put my game before people,'' Vanimórë said. ''But I would not have let him slay thee, any of thee.''

"I wonder."

"Thou dost not." The one sided smile flickered.

"Elgalad needs thee. And what he gives thee, no-one else ever will."

"I know it."  
Vanimórë bent his head, his lips drifting down to Maglor's loins. He felt the flesh swell to his breath, his tongue.

''I need him. Too much.'' The words came through coils of hair as Vanimórë raised his head. ''And I need this. My father was right in one thing: I do like the spice of hate. I _do_ like it.'' His laugh was throaty; it burned into Maglor's flesh.

_ Is that what it is? A thrill, an addiction, something his soul needs? It did not resist Morgoth and Sauron undamaged..._

Vanimórë rose, walked to the wide balcony. He watched dawn blanch the sky.  
"I need him. I need thee, and neither of thee truly needs me." His smile was bitter, amused. He looked back over his shoulder. "No-one does. And that, my beauty, is the deepest truth. I hope Elgalad discovers it." 

**Pashaar - The Empire**

''The Emperor of Cathaia has several marriageable sisters.''

Eldarion sat up, pushed webs of hair from his face as he watched Vanimórë pour wine and lean back against the wall. From the gardens came the music of fountains, the heavy fragrance of flowers. The teeming life of Pashaar was a background hum.

''Thou must marry.''

''I know. Strange, is it not? The first woman I loved was my half-sister who I could not have. The second..._person_ I desired is equally beyond my reach.''

''Oh, not beyond thy _reach._'' Glittering eyes traced over the prince with appreciation. ''We will be brother rulers all thy long life. But it is thy duty to wed. I did.''

The memory of Tinwen and Alphwen brought a cloud to Eldarion's eyes, a long silence to the great room.

''I thought to marry for love.''

"Royalty rarely has that choice," Vanimórë said. "All we have to do is ensure there is something left, after. Men must remember something, an age of powers and kings.'' He laughed. ''And gods who walked — and lay — with men.''

''If any knew of this I would be called thy catamite, and pawn.'' Eldarion sipped the wine. The afternoon heat was soporific, beckoned sleep.

''True enough.'' Vanimórë shrugged. ''There are some who know, but they will not speak of it. Elladan, Elrohir. Elgalad.''

''Elgalad _knows?_ For how long?''

''Years.''

"I am...sorry." Eldarion looked appalled. "I would not hurt him for all Arda."

Vanimórë set aside his goblet and knelt on the bed. He crawled the length of it like a panther.  
''Oh yes, thou wouldst,'' he murmured. ''Thou art relieved that the one who was a rival to thee in mine...affections, has rejected me.''

Eldarion flushed. ''I forget, at times that you see all.''

''Not all. Enough.''

''And that is why I was invited here? To meet the Cathaian ambassador?''

Vanimórë sat up, cross legged. ''Do not underestimate Cathaia and its people. They are urbane, they write poems, dress in silk, discuss philosophy, and plot the stars. But there are millions of them; they are damned fine warriors and are more loyal to their Son of Heaven than my people are to me, and thy father's to him.''

''I am surprised you have not taken your armies into the east,'' Eldarion remarked.

''Why has not Elessar?''

''He says the same as you: Cathai is too big. To wage a war so far from home would suck dry the treasuries, and carry too great a risk.''

Vanimórë nodded. ''It is too far away. The bigger the army, the more gold one needs, and more food to feed it. Soldiers tend to get very irritable when they have empty bellies. If I lead an army into Cathaia with supply trains, we would be fighting across scorched earth. I would drain my treasury, and for what? I have no need to conquer it, and they, as yet, have no need to look west. Let us keep it like that. I never desired to rule the world, just part of it.''

''Oh no, you are not ambitious at all,'' Eldarion muttered into his wine-cup. "And will you offer to marry a Cathaian Princess?''

''I cannot sire children, and I will have no heir.''

''Yet you wed my sisters. Do you know that people now say they were corrupted by your dark sorcery?'' Eldarion was astonished to hear amused laughter.

''Yes, how could the daughters of Elessar and Arwen be aught but perfect?'' Vanimórë said dryly. ''Come, let us bathe, and thou wilt meet the Cathaian ambassador this evening.''

Eldarion came to his feet. ''Elgalad?'' he asked. ''How is he?''

Vanimórë shook his head as he walked to the bathing room and stepped into the sunken bath.  
''A long time ago, when I left a young Elf on the borders of Mirkwood, I forced myself not to seek out his mind. It was better so, for him, for me. I know he is in Imladris, I have left him alone. He needs to know he can live without me.''

''And can he?''

''Elladan or Elrohir would summon me if I were needed. I hate that I hope they will. Thou art a fine man, Eldarion. Thou wilt make a great king, but no-one can replace him, the space he wore in my heart long ago.''

''I know that,'' the prince replied calmly. ''You are not the only one who feels simple lust unclouded by need for love.''

''Then our relationship will not disappoint thee,'' Vanimórë smiled.

''It has not, so far." Eldarion walked to the doorway, let his eyes stray down the magnificent naked body, lapped by light. "You still wear the wedding ring."

''Yes.'' Scented water rippled over the ruby. ''Elgalad owns my soul. I always made the mistake in thinking he needed me. And so, I think, did he.'' 

***

''It is said,'' Prince Haian examined a delicate pastry and popped it in his mouth. ''That you favor only men, my lord.''

''A false rumor, prince,'' Vanimórë replied. ''I favor both men and women. I have been married. Of political necessity, of course.''

''Ah yes, an interesting tale surrounds that. To Prince Eldarion's sisters was it not?'' Haian inclined his head to the tall, beautiful man who sat close by.

''Briefly. It was not a success. I had to order their deaths.''

The little pastries were stuffed either with a spiced meat or with hot herb cheese and were quite delicious, Haian conceded.  
"Such things must be done at times." He wiped his mouth with a napkin. "The Son of Heaven has sisters of surpassing beauty, and with many accomplishments.

Vanimórë flicked a wink at Eldarion. ''Please, Prince Haian,'' he said graciously. ''Tell us more of these ladies.''

Lamplight flickered from his ring as he raised the wine-cup to his lips. It seemed to beat and flare like a heart, a heart that he wished were beside him, not thousands of leagues away. ~

~~~


	31. The Stars of Imladris

  
~ Elgalad sat on the balcony braiding three strands of his hair into a string for his bow.  
In the three years he had been here the twins had watched him, and their concern had grown. He was courteous, quiet. He smiled at their concern, beautifully, with sadness.

Imladris flourished. Elves from Lindon came, and the music of harp and voice intertwined with the running waters. At times Gil-galad and Tindómion would ride here. Elgalad would speak to them. And more. 

But the twins knew heartache when he saw it. They saw it in the silent suffering of Elgalad's lovely mouth, the wounded water-bright eyes. Resting his hand against the newel-post, Elladan watched as Elgalad's fingers wove the hair. The slant of afternoon light burnished him to silver, and Elladan remembered his mother. Her beauty had been as summer moonlight, Elgalad's was more brilliant, numinous. Not for the first time, Elladan wondered who he was. Elgalad was so inextricably tied to Vanimórë in every-one's mind that few remembered he must have had parents. All that was known is that had been born in Edhellond.

Elgalad looked up, smiling a greeting, and moved over to allow his friend to sit.

''Beautiful,'' Elladan murmured. They looked across the gardens where the sun leached drowsy scents from herb and flower.

''Yes,'' Elgalad agreed. ''I always l-loved it here. Wilt thou leave? When the t-time comes?''

Elladan nodded. ''We will leave for Lindon, although it will be a great sorrow for us. After that, who knows? Perhaps we can return. Perhaps there will be another Imladris.''

''I hope so.''

A few pale hairs clung to the shoulder of Elgalad's tunic, and Elladan lifted them off.  
''I was thinking of my mother, and her silver hair...'' He gathered Elgalad's loose mane. It was so thick his fingers could not encompass it, and poured free again, sleek as metal, warm from the sun.

''Damn Vanimórë.'' He felt the stiffening at that name. His hand touched Elgalad's cheek, cupped it. ''How can he not come?''

Elgalad's face turned to his, beautiful and vulnerable. Elladan leaned forward and kissed him.   
  
"I do not w-want him," Elgalad lied, and rose. "Come."  
  


***

''You are beautiful,'' Elladan whispered, sliding his hand, slick with oil down the engorged shaft. ''I want to feel you inside me. You have never had him, have you? I do not imagine Vanimórë willingly allows any-one to master him.'' He rose to kneel at the foot of the bed, moonstone eyes gleaming.   
  
Elgalad said nothing, he thrust in hard. Elladan arched inward, a gasp of pleasure breaking from him.

''Yes,'' he groaned, and Elgalad's long fingers moved to grip his hardness, to work him both ways. "Yes. _More._"

Hands came to rest on Elgalad's hips, eased his taut buttocks apart. He cried out as he was entered, heard Elrohir's husky laugh, and then Elgalad lost himself in Elladan, was lost in Elrohir. And it was glorious.

***

**New Cuiviénen**

Thunder cracked over the wind ruffled waters of Gaear Gwathluin, and a voice heard by only one in New Cuiviénen cried: _Fëanor!_

The High King's start at the power and fury in that mind-shout caused him to bring his hammer down on one finger. He cursed, flinging the tool across the room.

_What?_

_Meet me in thy rooms._

Fëanor strode from the forge into the palace.  
_ If it is that damned important then come thou to me!_

"I think not." The door crashed back with him against it. Vanimórë slammed his hands each side of Fëanor's shoulders.

''What does one do?'' he asked conversationally, ''when the one thou lovest offers himself freely to others? What was it like, Fëanor, to have Elgalad crying out for thee, begging for more?''

''It was wonderful. But thou knowest that.'' A taunting smile lit the gemfire eyes. ''And as to the first question? Thou art a jealous bastard. I have felt jealousy, I know it well! I wanted Fingolfin long before I had him, and knew he lay with his wife.'' As he spoke he cracked his head forward against Vanimórë's brow, followed it with a punch in the stomach. "Elgalad had lovers before thee, thou knowest that."

Vanimórë flung off the pain with a toss of his head and lashed out, his fist cracking against the Fëanor's jaw.

''What didst thou do to remedy thy jealousy?''

''I burned. As thou doth burn.''

A marble table toppled. Books and ornaments showered to the floor as they fought.

''Give thyself to me." They broke apart and circled like two great cats.

''No-one masters me, _Gorthaurion!_'' Fëanor deliberately used the patronymic; he knew Vanimórë loathed it.

''What wilt thou wager, _my son?_''

''Thy son by body. My soul is my own. _I am Fëanor!_'' The marble pillars caught the power in the declamation and sent echoes whispering: _Fëanor...Fëanor_

''That thou art.'' Vanimórë closed the space between them fast as a striking snake. Their eyes met, their breath mingled.

''Give thyself to _me,_'' Fëanor murmured.

''And none master _me._''

''Morgoth, Sauron, orcs, Men, wolves. The mad Emir of Tanith, Glorfindel...'' Black hair whipped aside as Vanimórë backhanded him across the face. They went down, landing shortened blows to face and body, rolling over and over. Their lips clashed, and fury exploded into lust. Vanimórë brought up a knee, threw Fëanor back. He rolled and came up in an instant, his eyes brilliant with hard, wild laughter.

''I would love to tame thee.''

''I am never tamed, Fëanor. Morgoth and Sauron both made the error of believing I was.''

Fëanor smiled. ''Who are they? _I_ could master thee, and thou wouldst enjoy it.''

Silence. A faint, half-intrigued smile curved Vanimórë's mouth.  
''Perhaps, one day, we shall test that claim.''

Fëanor poured wine. ''I thought we had. So. Thou doth come to me because try as thou might, the thought of Elgalad with lovers day after day, night after night, maddens thee.'' His eyes narrowed, gleaming under the long lashes. ''And to think I let him alone because I believed the both of thee needed time.''

''Elgalad is not a wine for thee to sample.'' The heat went out of Vanimórë's voice, leaving it oddly flat. 'I threw him into their arms.''

''Not only theirs.''

''He will die, loving me. And I would bend fate to my will.''

Fëanor drained the goblet, rolled it between his fingers.  
''Listen to me. Elgalad is the love thou never hadst. Without him, thy soul darkens." The Silmaril eyes held violet. "Even the memory of him holds thee on the edge of the blade where thou dost walk. But we cannot be as he is. We are not love. In the end it is not even in thy hands, is it? And neither is he. Thou art in his. And thus, so is all Arda.''

***

''I love thee.''

Sweet, cool air smelling of night and pine. An owl's screech from the distant forest, plovers winging across the meadows with their lovely, lonely cries...

''Then come to me.''

Purple eyes burned in the darkness. Elgalad saw them smile and parted his lips for a kiss which drew his soul from his body, more each time.

His heart thudded as he blinked. For a moment he though he was in Lindon, but the distant thunder of the waterfalls brought reality back. He closed his eyes. 

_Come to me._

~~~


	32. Obsidian And Alabaster

  
The wedding was the greatest the High Kingdom had seen. Guests flocked in from as far away as Tanith and icy Forochel. The Lossoth who dwelt there had once harbored the last King of Arnor, and Elessar had renewed friendship with the tough, independent people.

Sultans and princes who ruled under the God-Emperor came from the Harad, from Khand and Chey Sart. The autonomous Khagan of Palisor was pleased to attend. Gil-galad rode from Lindon and three, days before the Summer Solstice, the enormous entourage of Kikinu, third Princess of Cathaia entered Osgiliath.

The crowds who gathered to watch were fascinated but destined to be disappointed. The lady's palanquin was heavily curtained, as was custom for a noblewoman of Cathaia when in public. However, her escort were interesting enough to stare at, and the King had promised seven days of celebration after the wedding. 

The negotiations had taken almost a year, though the marriage had been decided on the day that Prince Haian met Eldarion in Pashaar. King Elessar was relieved. It was not a love match, but it would form a bond between distant, wealthy Cathaia and the High Kingdom.

There was one guest missing who, with his inherent gift for drama, delayed his arrival until after that of the Princess. Elessar thought, with a spasm of irritation, that Vanimórë used even this occasion to display the power of the Imperium.  
It was ironic that after all the prophecies of the Age of Men, the greatest Empire Arda had ever seen was ruled by the son of Sauron. Unfortunate too, that Eldarion leaned toward the Elven side of his ancestry and, unless the king missed his guess, toward Sauron's son. This troubled Elessar deeply. He did not want his son to become the puppet monarch of a god, for the Re-united Kingdom to be overshadowed by the dark Imperium.

In the end, there was nothing frivolous or flamboyant in Vanimórës entrance into Osgiliath. There were no silk-hung litters, no flash of gem. It was, Elessar thought, like unto a conqueror entering a subjugated city. On a great black war-horse, Vanimórë rode at the head of fifty Steelguard, that being the maximum number of soldiers that might accompany any of the visiting dignitaries. The warriors rode in two lines behind Vanimórë in full-face helms and black plumes; the Emperor's was purple. The sable and violet banners, set with one white star, caught the summer wind, and streamed above the riders.

When the Steelguard came to a precise halt in the square, Elessar and Eldarion were there to greet them. With them stood the Queen and her two younger daughters. Arwen's eyes were flint-hard. Vanimórë had dared to judge and murder Alphwen and Tinwen. She suffered his attendance only because her husband had stated one did not slight the ruler of the Imperium. They had argued bitterly about that.

Drawing off his helm, Vanimórë inclined his head and cool words of greeting were exchanged before he was shown to his rooms. The wagons which had traveled behind him were taken to the outer ward for the unloading of, servants whispered, priceless wedding gifts.

The palace was swarming with guests. Deciding who might feel slighted and who must be housed in the palace had been a headache for the High Council. The Emperor of Cathaia, (with his truly enormous retinue) the God-Emperor and the Khagan of Palisor must certainly be given precedence, as must Gil-galad. Elladan and Elrohir would also have chambers here. Fortunately the princes of Dol Amroth, Ithilien and others great houses of the High Kingdom kept mansions in Osgiliath, and the lesser rulers would be their guest-friends for this time.

Pride and longing had brought Elgalad from Imladris, and he was out of the city riding when Vanimórë arrived. But he knew. He could feel Vanimórë's presence like lightning in his blood. 

The Hall of Feasts, many other chambers and the gardens were in use that evening. With the formality of old Gondor and lost Númenor, each noble would be announced and greeted by the royal family before taking their seats. Vanimórë would advance from the great doors up to the dais in full view of Elgalad. 

''Sit still.'' Elrohir cast a glance at his twin as he he deftly braided the thick sheaves of silver hair. When he was done, Elladan set a gold circlet on his brow; in the center was a spray of sapphires.

''Now, stand up.''

Elgalad wore black and yew-green, his narrow hips girdled with a silver knotwork belt. The twins shared a look of mutual admiration, as if they were proud fathers presenting their son to a gathering for the first time. Theirs was a strange relationship, and had not the twins been so close that they truly needed only one another, and had Elgalad not been in love with Vanimórë, it would not have worked. As it was, the three shared passion and a deep affection that endured perhaps for the very reason it should not: love, or rather the nature of it. They loved Elgalad as a brother and desired him as a lover, and he did not find their own incestuous relationship shocking. Had any one of them felt more or less, the edifice would have broken apart. But it have all of them something they wanted or needed. 

They played teasing, erotic games that became hours of sex, both wild and languorous, but Elgalad also joined them in patrols around Imladris. Now that Elrond was gone, the valley was no longer so difficult to find. More and more Men moved to Arnor, and there always some who lived on the fringes, criminals fleeing from justice, thieves, wolfsheads. The days of Imladris' isolation were long passed. 

''Now. Look.'' Elrohir took him by the shoulders and stood him before a long pier glass. The twins themselves were appareled as Princes in sapphire and white, stars on their brows, long black hair in the royal braids of the House of Eärendil.  
  
Elgalad looked at himself. It was, he knew, for him to decide, and nothing so simple as to whether take back a lover he had rejected four years ago. There was power and purpose to their relationship, and had he not always known that, even as a besotted youth? Their lovemaking took more of him each time, as he gave to Vanimórë the love he had lacked since his birth. Elgalad knew, too, where it would lead, that it was destined, that Vanimórë was utterly wrong about their bond in the most important of ways. Be that as it may, neither of them could reject the other. Nerves and excitement seethed in his blood. Eldarion was not the only one on display this day. 

A tap at the door brought them around and at Elladan's call to enter a man came in, bowing.

''My Lords, I am to conduct you to the hall. Prince Eldarion awaits.''

''Come.'' The twins kissed him, flushing his pale lips to rose, and full in the sight of the servant, who blinked. They followed him then, down wide corridors, up a flight of stairs. The passage widened, lit by a bank of windows on the left. Through them Elgalad saw the city, the gleam of the Great River.

Eldarion was waiting outside his chambers. He, too, was splendidly attired and looked, unsurprisingly, a little nervous. His smile was both cautious and welcoming as Elgalad approached.

''It is good to see you.''   
He had been surprised and relieved to hear that his uncles' had taken Elgalad as a lover. He was also embarrassed that Elgalad had long known what was between he and Vanimórë. Glancing at Elgalad now, the prince thought him radiant, unhuman. If Vanimórë could resist all this silver splendor, he was made of ice, and Eldarion knew he was not. 

There came a rustle of silks as Elessar and Arwen came toward them. The king greeting Elgalad with courtesy, his wife with a brief inclination of the head. She despised any-one connected to Vanimórë, and Elgalad would have had to be blind to not see it. He remained unruffled. Arwen's younger daughters, however, smiled and walked each side as they ascended the stairs to the feast Hall. He offered both arms and they slipped their hands into the crook of his elbows. They were lovely young women, more like their eldest sister in looks than their mother, and eyes the image of Vanya's.

No guests were yet in the Great Hall, but servants lined the walls. They drew the heavy chairs back, the family seated themselves. At a gesture from Elessar, the doors were opened to admit the High Council and the nobles of the realm, lead by Dol Amroth and followed by Ithilien. Wine was poured, and the gentle murmur of conversation arose. Between Eldarion and the king two spaces were empty, presumably for the Emperor of Cathaia and his sister.

The guests arrived in reverse order of precedence. Kings and princes of the Imperium entered, followed by the rulers of Erebor, Dale, Aglarond, and the Iron Mountains. With them came the Master of Esgaroth. The Chieftain of the Lossoth was there, uncomfortable among so many in this vast place of stone, and longing for the wide north. After him came the king of Dorwinion, dark and sleek, bedizened with jewels. Thranduil of the Great Wood and his Lords entered. The King looked with surprise at Elgalad, and smiled with raised brows. All eyes were on the Elves; this was the first time many of the guests had seen them.  
There was a short pause, then the herald declaimed: 

''Gil-galad, King of Lindon, and Prince Tindómion Fëanorion.''

The Noldor paced gracefully through the doors, bringing a fierce, antique beauty into the room, and providing a stunning contrast to the wood-Elves fairness. Neither were diminished. The King wore in cobalt and silver, ebony hair braided with gold, the Fëanorion was bronze-tressed. Both inclined their heads, raising hands to breasts before being lead to where the Lindon contingent were seated. 

''Oniadus Tumalain, Khagan of Palisor.'' This was a lean man with a braided beard, one depending ear-ring, and shrewd eyes under a heavy circlet. His robes were Cathaian silk, with voluminous breeches tucked into gilded leather boots. He was, with the wealth of both Cathai and the Imperium passing through his realm, one of the richest men on Arda.

Elgalad felt his heart push into his throat as the eyes of the gathering turned again to the door. He knew who must come next, unless, he thought, with a touch of amusement, Vanimórë ignored the order of precedence and waited until the Cathaians were greeted. No, the insult was both too great and too petty.

''Vanimórë Gorthaurion, God-Emperor of the Harad, of Chey Sart, and of Khand.''

There was a pause, used as a bard might to gather attention, before Vanimórë entered. He was followed by one of his generals, his chief adviser and two Steelguard. The room contracted about Elgalad.  
Vanimórë was, as always, in black, but the cloak that fell from throat to heel was lined with Imperial purple, the color of his eyes. The crowned face frame that clasped his features rendered him as unhuman as the god of his title. Under it his hair flowed to his knees like an unwed maiden's.

He walked as if he owned the world, or did not care who did, thought Elgalad. There was fire in his breast, his loins. He could not even blink as Vanimórë strode up to the dais, wearing power as naturally as his hair. He sketched an elegant bow. Light flashed in somber magnificence from the ruby ring on one hand.

_Well, that tells me much._

"I thank thee for thy welcome, King Elessar," he said.

Their responses were lost on Elgalad. He was freshly astonished at the physical effect Vanimórë produced in him; he was fully, and painfully, aroused. The fragrance of sandalwood drifted to him as Vanimórë moved, and with a jolt, Elgalad realized that the servant was pulling out the chair on his right.

Vanimórë unloosed his cloak and let it fall unheeded. That, Elgalad knew, was a mere gesture. Having looked after himself most of his life, Vanimórë was as tidy as a veteran soldier, but as an emperor he gave people the spectacle they wanted. A servant swept it into his arms, another poured wine.

Elgalad turned his head to look at the carven profile, familiar and daunting; the scroll of the mouth, the straight bridge of the nose, high brow under the face frame, upward tilt of brow winging into gemmed filigree.  
His face he knew, was aflame. He could feel the heat of it, was surprised to see his hand steady as it raised the wine-cup to his lips. His thorat was dry as dust.

''Daan Iteya, Son of Heaven, Divine Emperor of Cathaia, and the Princess Kikinu Iteya, Flower of Loishan.''

The pulse beat in Elgalad's throat as he rose with the others, forcing himself to focus on the slender, richly robed young man and the woman beside him. Gleaming black hair swept up from an oval face. Her skin was pale, her mouth scarlet, her eyes black and gleaming. She looked as delicate as tinted porcelain. Her smile was close-lipped, demure. Elgalad wondered if the Cathaian spies knew anything of Eldarion's relationship with Vanimórë. 

He could not eat. He saw from the corner of his eye, Vanimórë take a little beef, some greens, fresh bread. He was always frugal. Not to be outdone, Elgalad cut a sliver of meat, chewed and swallowed. He could not taste it. He felt, more than saw, Elladan beside him shake briefly with laughter, and kicked his ankle. He could not speak, had not the faintest idea of what to say to this man who had been his lover, was an Emperor, a god. He wanted to slide onto Vanimórë's lap, wind his hands in the mass of blue-black hair, and kiss him. He wanted him now, before all this gathering, and was not remotely shocked at the images his mind painted. He took another long draught of wine. 

All such occasions were tense, but this was exacerbated by Arwen's seething hatred and the formalities which the Cathaian's insisted upon. The meal seemed to drag on interminably, but at length last Elessar rose, indicated that they all repair to the gardens to enjoy the spring night. Elgalad saw Vanimórë walk over to speak with Gil-galad and Tindómion. Both of them looked across at him. He could not tell if they were amused or not, until Tindómion winked. He stifled a shaken laugh, and was glad when the twins took his arms and lead him outside. As they passed Vanimórë he turned, said to Gil-galad: "Yes, let us get some air."

He was two steps behind Elgalad all the way out. Elgalad thought his tunic would melt from his body. He felt thoroughly intoxicated, and not on wine.


	33. Bitter Enmity

~ The gardens of Osgiliath were renowned. Walls, garlanded and draped by roses were pierced by arched doorways. There were arbors and stone benches where people might sit. Lanterns were hung upon trees and night-blooming jasmine vied with perfume as the guests drifted into knots. Many an alliance, trade agreement, marriage, or politely couched threat would be made in this sennight of elebration, in wide chambers, bedrooms and quiet garths. 

The Southern kings had banded together. Their talk would mostly be of political marriages and trade. Oniadus of Palisor was speaking to the prince of Chey Sart. A rebellion there a few years ago had resulted in the execution of the Khagan, and the elevation to rulership of some-one more amenable to Imperial rule.  
  
Daan Iteya of Cathaia sat under a canopied chair, flanked by two of his personal guard. Thranduil talked to Gil-galad and Tindómion. Relations between the Noldor and Silvans might never be easy, but the events in Angmar years ago had bred a new respect between them. Meanwhile, Eldarion conducted Kikinu around the gardens, and listened attentively to her soft questions. She spoke Westron flawlessly. He also suspected she was very clever.

''Try to enjoy yourself,'' Elessar whispered to his wife, whose hand on his arm gripped suddenly harder. ''Vanimórë acted as intermediary in the arranging of this marriage. I could hardly not invite him.''

"You welcome the murderer of our daughters to our realm," Arwen said through a false smile for the benefit of their guests. "He mocks is, and you allow it."

"Our daughters were not above his laws."

Arwen beckoned a servant for wine.  
"Any true father would have sought vengeance."

"The High Council proclaimed we would not go to war for personal reasons. You forget that the emperor could have _proved _ our daughters paid assassins to kill Elgalad, and declared war on _us._ He could have said we knew, even approved of it."

"We did not know of it." Arwen's eyes sought out Elgalad, standing with Elladan and Elrohir. "And he tossed that whore aside for my brothers." Her disgust had rang loud in the twins ears. "I do not blame them for hiring some-one to rid themselves of _him._ They must have been desperate, neglected."

"I hardly think so," Elessar said stiffly. "And you seem to forget that Elgalad cared for our granddaughter who lies in the Hallows. The one you would not admit was of your blood, and would not even see." He disengaged his arm, walked away to mingle with his guests.

"My deepest congratulations, Sire." The tow-haired Master of Esgaroth bowed. He was a level headed man rather overwhelmed by this gathering, but hoping to pick up new trade from the east and south. "The prince is a fortunate man. The lady is a great beauty."

"I thank you." The king inclined his head. "I must introduce you to Chey Sart, I hear amber is highly fashionable in that land now."

He watched, only half-attending to the man's words as Vanimórë approached Eldarion and Kikinu. Both mens' faces were in profile. Elessar saw the flush of color stain his son's cheek, the faint smile curl Vanimórë's mouth.

And Kikinu watched just as intently.

~~~

Elgalad looked at Vanimórë, who was now speaking to to Ithiliel and Arieniel, the young princesses. At his gesture they laughed, placed their hands on his arms, walking with him. Clearly they were intrigued, equally, they were not concerned that he had executed their sisters. They had been children, and Elgalad well knew the fascination of danger. His eyes met Eldarion's for a moment, and they shared a brief communion of understanding.

_He would not offer for them, not after what happened with the others. Elessar would never permit another such marriage. _

"No. It means naught," Elrohir murmured. "He is a courtier." He turned at a rustle of silk. ''Sister.'' He and Elladan saluted Arwen's cheeks with a kiss. Elgalad bowed. 

"What do you think of the Cathaian?" Arwen ignored him. "A tiny thing."

''They are not a tall people,'' Elladan agreed. ''But she is beautiful.''

''My daughters were beautiful,'' she said coldly. ''My _dead daughters,_ corrupted and killed by Gorthaurion. But, oh look! Here is his erstwhile lover. It seems you got off more lightly, and were simply discarded."  
Elgalad flushed as Arwen went on: "Tell me, dear brothers, does he service you well? Do you pay him? Or does he pay _you?_" Her eyes clawed at Elgalad. She spat deliberately in his face. "_ Whore!_"

Silence fell, spreading out around them in a growing circle which brought every head turning. The chink of gem and goblet, the brush of rich fabrics, faded to quiet, avid breathing.

Elessar's face darkened as he walked through the motionless crowd to his wife.  
"Arwen," he said. "Come."

''I will come when I have spoken, since you will not," she declared. "The High Kingdom is _shamed_ by the presence of that so-called _Dark God._ He murdered my daughters. And is there one man, any man among my subjects who will step forward and demand justice?''

''Justice is it? I _dispensed_ justice on thy daughters.'' The ringing answer came from behind the Queen. She whirled. ''For the highest and the lowest the penalty for murder is the same. It is death.''

Arwen's slap cracked across his face, and there was a deeper quiet, the watchers both thrilled and shocked. Vanimórë could have avoided that, Elgalad knew, feeling his own breath indrawn in his throat. He had chosen to accept it.

''And thou speakest of Elgalad as a whore? Elgalad Amrothion is the titular king of Lórien, son of Amroth and Nimrodel. Though few now inhabit that land, he is still the son of a King. An apology is required, madam.''

The Elves looked at one another in astonishment.

''Lies,'' Arwen refuted. ''And I do not apologize to _whores!_'' Her arm drew back to strike again, and the subjects of the Imperium waited breathlessly for Vanimórë to reduce the woman to a heap of dust. The second slap disturbed its recipient as little as the first, and the face frame, which looked so delicate, was fashioned of steel. It stung her hand, the ruby chips opening tiny cuts.

Elessar drew her back. She kicked out, the bored expression in the purple eyes acting as oil on a fire.  
"Who will stand forth to meet and slay this demon?" Arwen demanded. "Is there not one of you with any courage?"

The silence that fell was absolute; the play of the fountain sounded unnaturally loud.

''Meet him,'' Arwen commanded, flinging around to face the king. ''Meet him and slay him for my daughters sake!''

From somewhere came an almost hysterical giggle, hastily stifled.

''You jest, Arwen,'' Elrohir said.

''I _jest,_ do I? What have we become when we let a buggering murderer walk into our realm, with the blood of my daughters still reeking on him? Were I a man I would meet him myself!''

''By the laws of the Imperium our daughters were guilty of treason and murder.'' Elessar's face and voice were strained.

''Laws of the Imperium? I spit on them and on him! Tinwen and Alphwen...'' Arwen looked around. ''It was _he_ who corrupted them, made the children they bore monsters!''

"That could even be true, madam," Vanimórë replied, calm as a pool of milk. "were I able to sire children. I was cursed that my seed might never engender life, save once. Thy daughters children were fathered by other men, and they paid assassins to murder Elgalad, who _did_ kill Fanari Penlodiel. If I had not ordered their deaths, the Noldor would have dealt with them."

"Yes," said Tindómion emphatically.

"They were guilty," Vanimórë said. "and they were punished. If thou doth not know the half of what they did in Pashaar, then thou hast a very inept spy network. And I do not think that is true."

''I do not care,'' Arwen's shouted back. ''Eldarion! Meet this _ monster,_ and avenge your sisters. You saw them die and did _ nothing!_''

''Because they were guilty,'' her son responded. He was very pale. ''As for the lowest, so for the highest is the law of the High Kingdom and the Imperium both.''

''Not for me and mine!''

Vanimórë did the unforgivable: he laughed. The sound was quiet, infectious. More than a few people found themselves hiding chuckles behind fans and hands. The situation was so dreadful there was no other way to resolve the tension.

Elladan and Elrohir caught the Queen's arms in an unbreakable lock. She glared hate at Vanimórë, her face livid, hair falling from its elaborate coiffure in streaks of darkness.

''Now where is the..._justice_ in that statement?'' Vanimórë wondered, walking to where Elgalad stood, utterly still. ''Corruption...? Look at him, madam. _Look at him._'' He ran his hand down the waterfall of silver hair. ''He adored Vanya, the crippled girl who survived all the poisons her mother, _your daughter_ inflicted upon her unborn body. Even being _my_ lover could not corrupt Elgalad. He wept for Vanya's death. Didst thou?'' He clicked his fingers at a goggle-eyed servant and, taking a napkin the man bore, dipped it in a fountain and wiped the spittle from Elgalad's frozen face. 

Elladan and Elrohir gathered around their sister, urged her away, while her children stood in the red-glowing muteness of embarrassment.

''You will suffer, Gorthaurion. I curse you. _Murderer! Whore of Sauron!_'' Arwen's snarl garnered only a flashing, icy smile. ''You will meet my husband in single combat !''

All was still and then came a sound from far beyond the gardens: a deep rumbling _boom._ Soldiers upon the walls of the city stared east to where the sky burned up in blood-red beyond the mountain walls of Mordor. A mutter ran through the ground setting wine shivering in its cups.

''I am not _happy,_'' Vanimórë murmured. Darkness seemed to gather around his tall form like a storm. His hair streamed in a sudden snap of wind, icy in the summer night, swirled about him, a gap into emptiness. In the shadow, his eyes burned. There were screams, some guests ran while others, including the Cathaian Emperor remained where they were, fascinated and frightened.

''Always be sure thou canst afford thine enemies, Lady,'' Vanimórë spoke out of smoke, out of nothing. Lightning broke upon the barren the peaks of the Ephel Duath, and the sky and air slammed in concussive agony.  
''I will not fight thy husband for thy vanity. For that is all it is. Thy daughters believed that they might do _anything,_ have whatever they wished because they were _ Elven princesses._ It would be harmless an it harmed no other, but it has killed and crippled unborn children, men, an innocent woman. We _all_ take responsibility for our actions. Do not thou dare to say to _me_ that _blood,_ that _rank,_ that _power _ raises any above the law, for that is what Morgoth Bauglir believed. That is what my father believed. No-one, madam, is above the laws.''

The whirling blackness faded. Vanimórë's hair fell to settle about him in tumbled coils. The earth weltered again, and people broke into a babble of consternation.

''Merely a small earthquake,'' Vanimórë said. ''Better to discharge my anger through Orodruin, no?'' He raised his brows at the staring nobles.

It was Thranduil who broke the tension, walking through the crowd with silent grace to Elgalad.

''If you are indeed Amdir's grandson, Elgalad, then we are kin.''

His face burning, Elgalad looked around gratefully, bowing his head.

''I met Nimrodel in the White Mountains,'' Vanimórë told his audience. ''It was not long before Sauron took Minas Ithil, and I was sent south into Gondor to observe. She and Amroth plighted their troth before they were parted. She died after birthing Elgalad. I believe she knew in her heart that Amroth was dead, and lived to bear the child of their love. I buried her beside her drowned king. And the rest, King Thranduil thou knowest.''

Elgalad stared at the grass under his feet, not knowing where to go, what to say, conscious of the vital presence so close to him, still feeling the touches on his hair and face.

''Elgalad, King Thranduil.'' Elgalad turned Tindómion who had plucked a salver from the hands of a servant and was offering it. His expression was a little wry.

''I th-thank thee.'' Elgalad took a goblet and drank.

''Wouldst thou return to Lórien?'' The Fëanorion inquired as if nothing had happened. ''I believe that there are few people there.''

''Celeborn came with his people to the south of Lasgalen. There are a few Galadhrim who remained behind.'' Thranduil sipped his own wine. ''When Celeborn left for Imladris, his people took me as their king, but there is not one Elf born of Lórien who would not rejoice to see the son of Amroth and Nimrodel among them.''

''Perhaps h-had matters been...d-different, sire,'' Elgalad said softly. ''I am no ruler, as thou art. Blood does n-not make a King.''

''Or a queen,'' Vanimórë murmured almost playfully and Elgalad's eyes rose to the fathomless violet ones. One of them winked, bringing a tide of fresh blood over his cheeks.

''Perhaps you would like to visit the land where your parents dwelt,'' Thranduil suggested. ''You could ride with us when we return to Lasgalen.''

''I thank th-thee,'' Elgalad said. '' I would l-like that.''

''Istelion, wilt thou favor us with some music?'' Gil-galad asked, and Tindómion nodded. He had brought his lap-harp, and now sat down and uncovered it. A mellow cascade of notes poured from the flashing strings, and the atmosphere gradually sank into peace as the wordless tune echoed through the gardens. After he had finished, the guests turned to one another. Conversation resumed quietly.

''Tell me, my Lord,'' Kikinu said. ''Will the God-king suffer such an insult to go unpunished?''

Eldarion looked down at her. ''It will not have troubled him in the least, Lady. He was angry at the insult to Elgalad, not himself.''

Her head tilted. ''So well you know him?''

He flushed. ''I would not say that. I think no-one knows him well. But he would not seek revenge on a woman. It is one of his codes.''

''I do not harm women, in the...normal way of things.'' Vanimórë concurred from behind them.

''But it is true, my lord, is it not, that you did kill the queen's daughters?'' Kikinu asked.

"I personally did not." Vanimórë's smile gleamed white and chilling. ''But yes, I ordered their deaths. What would thy brother do, lady, if such impertinence were offered to him?''

Kikinu's glance moved to where the Son of Heaven sat, speaking softly to one of his advisers.  
''He would have the one who offered it killed of course,'' she replied simply. ''Not at once. Secretly. So there could be no trail back to him.''

''The Jujani Tong?'' Vanimórë said, and her eyes widened.

''You know of them, lord?''

''It is said they killed thy father, in a place where none could possibly have entered.''

Her long lashes drooped, virgin-demure.  
''That is what is said, lord. Certainly his room was heavily guarded. There was no sign any-one had broken in to the room, and the guards heard nothing.''

"Most mysterious," Vanimórë agreed, urbanely. ''Yet perhaps fortuitous. I believe the former emperor was not so forward-looking as thy brother.'' He bowed to the couple and, hearing his name called, turned as Elessar walked toward him.

''I hope,'' the king said stiffly. ''That you will see the matter just passed as a grieving woman's anger.'' He spoke loud enough for all to hear.

"Of course, King Elessar,'' Vanimórë responded. ''Forget it. I already have.'' ~

  


  
** **

I refer to the Kingdom of Aragorn after the War of the Ring as the High Kingdom, as Re-united Kingdom sounds too clunky. In this story Osgiliath has been rebuilt and is used as the capital of Gondor, not Minas Arnor (Minas Tirith.) .

  



	34. The Rising Of New Stars

  
~ Flinging one booted leg over the arm of a bench, Vanimórë watched Elgalad talking to Thranduil, then glanced across at Tindómion and Gil-galad.   
He wondered at this strange blindness in Men. There was a tendency in them to forgive the vagaries of those who possessed beauty. Sauron had been able to assume a beautiful form, he thought scornfully. He felt the queen's hatred, heard the curses and threats she tossed about in her mind, before a mixture of exhaustion and poppy whirled her into sleep. He did not fear for himself, but he did fear for Elgalad.

_I had better make it plain to Elessar that no-one touches him, and were there any attempt I would know where the blame lay._

Elgalad looked princely. The silver fall of hair shimmered, intricate braids drawing it clear from his face, showing the molded line of cheek and clean jaw, their hardness at variance with the sweetness of his mouth.

It did not matter how many times he had possesses Elgalad, the nights that melted into dawns as he strove to ease the lust that mastered him, only for it to surge anew. He had tried to put it aside, to wrestle fate to his own will, to spare Elgalad. Impossible. And today, when he had walked into the great hall and seen him on the dais, he had been punched in the loin with a desire so deep he knew it could never be slaked. As they sat side by side, the heat cracked between them. So much for good intentions. He had tried to remain aloof, until Arwen insulted Elgalad. He hid a grimace. _Noble blood! _ Vanimórë knew just how much _noble blood_ was worth. He had seen nobles cringe and flee in battle, and sate their twisted appetites with children. He had watched men of peasant stock stand firm before an army, and give their lives for their sword-brothers.   
  
He was proud of Elgalad for standing with quiet dignity before the queen's tirade, grateful for Thranduil's skillful and delicate intervention, Tindómion's practiced deflection of the subject into a different channel. Elgalad had more friends than he realized.

He rose like a black cat and his smile, as he walked toward Elessar, brought wariness back to the king's eyes.

''Elgalad is dear to me,'' he said conversationally. ''And the real problem for any-one who hires assassins is, that if any attempt is made on his life, I will know _precisely who is responsible._ And I would know where to look. I think thou wouldst also. If anything happens to him, Elessar, I will take _extreme_ measures. I hope we understand one another. As it is, for now, let us put this unpleasantness behind us, and enjoy the festivities of these days.''

In the purple eyes, for a moment, Elessar saw stars falling in plumes of light across the sky.

***

There was fire around him, within him. He felt himself possessed, as Vanimórë took his body, took his soul. He heard himself cry out. It was too much. (Too much and never enough) His body broke, his consciousness fled. He floated on still, dark waters for a long time.

His room was lit with the first glow of dawn. Elgalad sat up, pushed back his hair. His body throbbed with dream-loving. Casting the sheets aside he rose went through to the bathing room to wash away the spill of his seed.

He had not remained long at the gathering after speaking to Thranduil. Elladan and Elrohir had returned from ministering to Arwen, and he had said, ''I am sorry.''

''You did nothing,'' Elladan drew him away. ''We are proud of thee.'' He rested his hand on Elgalad's shoulders and looked into his eyes. ''Do you wish to go inside?''

Elgalad felt that too many curious eyes were upon him, and nodded. The twins escorted him to his chambers and Elrohir called a guard, bidding them to let none enter unless Elgalad permitted it.

"Our sister hates you because Vanimórë favored you over her daughters and ordered their deaths," Elrohir told him when the door was closed behind them. "She sees it as a slight upon her. She does not know about Ungoliant, and we will not tell her, nor will Vanimórë it seems. Do you," he added. "have weapons?"

''Yes, b-but I th-thought we could not carry th-them.''

''Elgalad, wear them. I will answer to Elessar if anything is said. I do not think you will need them, but it is well to take no risks.''  
The twins kissed him, and left. He hesitated a moment, shrugged, and turned the heavy key in the door.

At some time in the late night he must have slept, only to dream of a love-making which racked him with aftershocks. He dressed, braided his hair, and leaned on the balcony. To the north, he saw the gleam of the Great River as it gathered itself from Cair Andros, the path it drove, sleek and powerful towards Eithir Anduin, the river delta.

There was a knock at the door and he turned.

''Who is it?''

''Your morning meal, lord.''

His hand dropped reflexively to the dagger in its sheath. He unlocked the door and stood back. The servant placed a tray on the table, then backed out with a negligible bow and minatory glance. The argument last night must have provided enough gossip to last a year. He was not hungry, but sipped the mint tisane slowly, wondering what he should do. He did not want to remain another day in Osgiliath. It was clear from the servant's demeanor that he would be blamed for Arwen's anger.

He sat back, his peripheral vision catching dance of prismatic light high on the stone ceiling. The sunlight had moved, glancing off a polished surface, he thought. Rising, he crossed to a table which held a bowl of apples and nuts, bound books, writing implements. Something small gleamed, and he picked it up, light flaring across his eyes as it caught the facets of a sapphire, set into a wide gold band.

He had thrown that ring at Vanimórë 's feet in Moria four years ago. His fingers closed over it. He looked around, searched each corner of the room for any sign that Vanimórë had been here. Only the deep brilliance of the gemstone answered him. It was enough.

***

Elladan was remembering many years ago when he and Elrohir had returned to Imladris with a young Estel. Twenty years old he had been, fair and high of heart. Their father had given him his true name and lineage, and the Ring of Barahir. The next evening he had walked in the woods and seen Arwen. He had called her "Tinúviel." 

Unseen by either of them, Elladan watched. Aragorn had said that he believed Arwen to be Lúthien Tinúviel. _"Or you walk in her likeness,"_ had been his words.

And her reply, to be compared with her foremother?

''_ So many have said. _''

***

''Say not that she is mad.'' Aragorn paced his chamber.

''Not mad. But no Elf, no Man is perfect, Estel.'' Elladan spoke quietly. ''You came, the Renewer, out of the legends of the past, to gain a throne and took to wife a woman they called the Elven Queen. We have seen what has happened here and in Arnor: wayside shrines with statues in the likeness of a woman with black hair and white skin. Arwen's cult has grown since the earliest days of your marriage, for she seems not to age and your courtiers praise her and compare her to Lúthien. It would take a stronger character than she has not to begin to believe in her own myth.''

''She loves me,'' Elessar turned. ''Or does she not, any-more?'

' "Herself more." Elladan loved the king as a brother, and his eyes were filled with pity. ''Her hate for Vanimórë is not because he took the lives of Tinwen and Alphwen, but because he dared to reject and condemn something which was of her body, something he should have worshiped. As you do, as your people do. She hates Elgalad because Vanimórë set him above her blood. Some people think they are more than they are, some people less. Very few know and accept exactly what they are. Arwen has to accept what she is.''

''What can be done?'' The king pressed his fingers to his brow.

"I am unsure. She has chosen Mortality." The twins shared long looks. "But I think she does not believe she will die. Give her a little poppy in her wine for a few days."

''Yes, keep her calm,'' Elrohir said. ''I do not fear for Vanimórë, but she may decide to punish him by hurting Elgalad and we, Estel, will not see that happen.''

"She will not apologize to him," Elessar warned them.

''He does not expect it, although he deserves an apology. They both do.'' Elladan turned to the door, then looked back. ''We will convey _your_ apologies, shall we?" He strode back, and gripped the king's shoulders. "Listen. No-one accepted Arwen's challenge last evening, to meet Vanimórë. They are not stupid, he is the Dark God. Yet to please their queen, people may seek to place blame on Elgalad. He is a warrior, but a dagger slipped between in ribs in a crowded passage...?''

"I will proclaim him untouchable," Elessar told them. "It will be a very foolish man who decides he will risk both my wrath and Gorthaurion's. In the meantime, let us get my son's wedding over, and keep the queen calm."

***

All that week the heat increased. The fume which had blasted from Orodruin spread on an east wind. It cast a pall over the sky, locked the heat beneath it. A grey dust sifted down, settling on plant, cloth and stone. Tempers grew short and the star-watchers opined it was an ill omen, while the people of the Imperium shrugged. It was the God-Emperor's punishment. Only they and the Elves seemed unconcerned, they and Kikinu.   
She knew that Vanimórë and Eldarion were lovers. Cathaian spies had reported it long ago, and she would have guessed anyhow. It did not matter, such liaisons were not uncommon in Cathaia, but she did not want her husband too influenced by this Dark God who sat on his mighty throne in the south.

***

The Prince felt oddly free as he rode to Annúminas, which would now be his own city.This was a new beginning for him, and he already believed Kikinu would prove a blessing. Her demureness had vanished in the bridal bed, and he found her skilled in the arts of pleasure. All women were taught them from a young age, she told him matter-of-factly. She had smelled of orange blossom, and her unbound hair was black silk in the lamplight. She had massaged him, praised his prowess and caressed him to sleep. His last thought was that Vanimórë had chosen well.

The journey north was pleasant. The wind had changed, Orodruin's rumblings had died down, and the heat was less. 

When they passed the wayside shrines and saw the statues of his mother with offerings of food and candles, he felt shame that this odd cult had not been ended long ago. Yet he knew no-one could prevent people worshiping something or some-one. In the Imperium, Vanimórë was a God to those he ruled, though he had never, as far as Eldarion knew, encouraged it. He went to the great temples dedicated to the One, or the Mother, but the people saw _him._ In the High Kingdom they saw Arwen, beautiful and fertile. It was a time of courtly love, of minstrels and lords imagining infatuation for the unattainable. It was perhaps natural that most of their devotion was directed at the queen. How could any woman's head not be turned by it?

_She will heal, ere the end. _ Vanimórë had said.

_When? _Eldarion had asked and seen pity, for a moment, in the violet eyes.

_At the end._

***

The falls seemed formed of liquid crystal. Water foamed about Elgalad as he stood in the river. He threw back his head, his wet hair drawn away by the current.

A voice was singing. Its sweetness blended with the dancing rush of Nimrodel, and it was Nimrodel, her voice, out of a distant past. A wind came up from the south and he thought he smelt brine on it, in this place so far from the sea.  
And as he listened another voice joined his mother's; a man's voice, joining with Nimrodel's in a song of lost love. 

_But love is never lost._

He opened his eyes, looked into burning purple. No dream this. He was here and real, droplets clinging to his naked skin. God. Emperor. Lover.

_ That was no dream either, my dear._

The grass was soft under him. Mallorn trees latticed the sky above. A cascade of silken, blue black hair poured over him and he gave himself up to the dark glory that was Vanimórë.

~~~

''I would stay here,'' he murmured, a long time later, as the light dimmed under the trees and the birds sang themselves to their roosts. The air smelled sweet, warm as velvet against the skin.

''Later, beloved.''

''When?''

''Thou wilt know when to come. Until then, go back to Imladris, or New Cuiviénen.'' Vanimórë rested his lips on the glimmering hair. ''I suppose it is fated then. I wondered if thou couldst love another.''

''I love many,'' Elgalad replied. ''But I have told thee before, and will tell thee again, for thee I was born.''

Vanimórë closed his eyes against the silver hair. It smelled of hawthorn after rain.

And he wanted to weep. 

~~~


	35. Afterglow And Sunset

  
~ It had been a memorable reign. Year layered gilt upon year, and old stories became legend. The High Kingdom brought back the glory lost long before Númenor fell, and Vanimórë's ironclad hand held the Imperium together. Peace lay over the north.

It was in Elessar's gift to give up his life, as it had once been his ancestors, and it was then that Arwen's eyes were opened and she realized fully the choice she had made long ago, under the birches of Imladris. Elessar would die and leave her alone. And in death, beauty and nobility was revealed in him, as if to show what Men might have been and should have been and would, at the end be again, when the Great Music was sung anew.

Winter came early and hard that year, and the ways in the north were filled with ice. The messengers sent to Imladris found their paths washed were delayed. By the time they arrived Arwen had left Gondor, and ridden north to Lórien, a silent land now, where frost came as it never had when Galadriel dwelt there.

The yellow mallorns bent against a north wind. It was sunless and icy as Arwen toiled to Cerin Amroth and lay herself down upon the mound, her thoughts groping back through the centuries. The years before her marriage seemed bright, shaded with many colors, but her tenure as was hazed and dim. She wept, for in the end, death seemed too final, a terrifying ghoul looming from the bleak darkness. 

Something warm settled over her: a cloak, smelling of fern and wildflowers. Her hand went out, and long fingers closed around it. In the bitter, starless dark she saw the glint of pale hair.

''Who are you?'' she asked, a thread of sound.

''It is Elgalad, L-Lady.''

''Ah,'' she sighed. ''I remember." Then: "Do you believe there is more than memory for the souls of Men, after death?''

''Oh, yes.'' His face seemed to gleam like a moonstone, and his voice was gentle. ''Sleep now, Undómiel. And th-then pain and grief w-will be no m-more than a dream which passes with the summer d-dawn.''

''Will you stay with me?'' She was very tired. ''I wanted to kill you, once, you and...Sauron's son.''

''It matters n-not.''

Clouds, torn ragged by the gale showed, now and then, glimpses of stars. Arwen's hand tightened around Elgalad's

''The Northmen call it _the wind that blows round the feet of the dead._'' Her voice was rough and hollow, a voice out of a dry well.

''Lúthien came for thy granddaughter, Arwen. Where they went, there was no death, no fear.'' He pointed to where the sky opened above Cerin Amroth and suddenly, welling through the storm rack, flung the fiery tail of a comet. It had appeared in the sky the day before Elessar's death. People saw it as Eru's salute to a great king. ''Look. There is l-light beyond the darkness.''

Arwen stared, and the comet ran, called her on. She she felt herself rise up toward it, the cold, the anguish and regret faded like water sinking into dry earth.

_All will be well._ It was not Elgalad's voice, but she seemed to recognize its rich lilt filled with compassion. A last glimpse she saw, of purple eyes in the night, before her own lost their sight.

Elgalad laid her cold hand across her breast, bent and kissed her brow.  
''Go b-blessed, Undómiel,'' he murmured.

''We will sit beside her this night, and when her brothers arrive, we will make her grave,'' Vanimórë said.

''Thou didst not h-hate her,'' Elgalad said, knowing it.

''I pitied her. She was told of this choice of Men, and believed in it, bound her unwilling soul to it before all was changed and Námo lost his power. No Elf should be made to choose thus.''

And there, on Cerin Amroth, Arwen's green mound was raised, and Elanor and Niphredil grew upon it in the spring, which was early and fecund; the beginning of the last Age of Elder Earth...

~~~

The years unrolled. Mostly there was peace, save in the tinder-box of the Imperium, where it seemed no tribe could live for long without warring on another.

Some, observing from afar, might have believed that the God-Emperor encouraged these internal wars, sending his soldiers from one end of the Imperium to another, ensuring they never grew stale, and so it became a belief that war pleased Vanimórë. The truth was that controlling those petty wars was like lifting the lid on a boiling cauldron at whiles, allowing the steam to vent. Each time his troops intervened the kings, merchant-princes and city governors thought better of their own plots and plans.

The years became a children's dance which whirls faster and faster, until, over-excited, the child becomes hysterical and collapses. The Age of Powers and Kings, when Vanimórë looked back long after, seemed like that. After Arwen's death, Elgalad dwelt in Lórien, and some Elves returned from Lasgalen, thus he was not alone. 

The High Kingdom basked in peace and wealth and men, as ever, became jaded and sought greater thrills and taboo pleasures. Fashions changed from season to season, lovers were shared, bought and sold. Vices were indulged at first in secret, then openly. Eldarion's sons were leaders in this. Kikinu had given her husband three sons' and a daughter. They were not bad-hearted, and loved their parents, but were too rich and popular for their own good. There were no more glories to be won, they said, so what was there to do but kick up a lark now and then?

Eldarion became ever more remote from his subjects, for he lived longer than any. He saw his eldest son die in a chariot race, driving whilst drunk, and his daughter succumbed to a plague which swept out of the hot east one year. He watched Kikinu die, at eighty-nine, still clever, still, to his eyes, beautiful. He mourned her deeply. He had ten grandchildren and countless others, engendered by his profligate sons. He ruled a realm at peace, and his subjects were bored by that peace.

People brought back tales of the Imperium, of its armies, wars and combat games. The wealthy traveled there, the young men to attend the Games and see the fabled Dark God. If the High Kingdom was a sated old wolf, the Imperium was a lion; it might seem to bask in the southern sun, but any movement would bring up its great head, draw the lips back from its teeth in a snarl before it pounced.

Lindon became a problem for Eldarion. Too many people wished to look upon the mysterious Noldor. He had proclaimed, in the early years of his reign, that even as the Shire was barred to Men, so was Lindon. The kingdoms traded at the River Lhûn, but after some incidents on the border, Eldarion tightened the law and imposed heavy penalties on those who broke it. He hand-picked trusted messengers to exchange news with Gil-galad.

His edict caused murmurs of discontent. Eldarion knew that as long as there were Elves in the world, Men would view them with envy and mistrust. Some called them demons and many began to hate them, saying that they should pass to their own land, leave Arda to Men.

Lindon increased its border patrols when it became a sport among wealthy lordlings to make forays into it for a wager, and perhaps carry off something to prove it. In one incident a Nandor woman was hunted down. Her body was found days later. She had been raped, her face beaten beyond recognition, as if some-one had wished to obliterate her beauty and prove that an Elf could die.  
Those responsible were never found, thou there were rumours. Gil-galad declared that any Man bearing arms into his realm would face death, and a frost settled on the relationship between Lindon and the High Kingdom. The young nobles whispered that Lindon should be taken, the Noldor killed or sold into slavery.

_It is crumbling._

_Yes._

_The ending you spoke of, it approaches._

_Yes._

_Will it ever be thus, with Men? Will we rise only to fall again? Will we ever learn?_

_Empires will always rise and fall, Eldarion, and Man will always climb from the rubble and build again. It is their nature. _

***

''It is given to me to freely give up my life, as my father did.'' The King turned from the window. ''My second son is heir to my throne, but that will not matter, will it?''

Vanimórë shook his head. ''I have given thee the time. And it comes soon upon us.''

''You never loved me, but it has been a good life, Vanimórë.'' Eldarion smiled across the room.

''I have loved thee in my way.''

''Have I failed?''

''I said long ago that each person takes responsibility for their own actions. Thou hast ruled well, but perhaps Men cannot live at peace. It seems that only in times of adversity does their true metal show. But fear not, what is this but a dream before awakening? I can never wake, and where thou goest, I cannot. I am chained to Arda and to sorrow. Thou, and all the others gone before thee, pass to freedom.''

The king turned to the window again.  
''Will you be with me at the end?''

He felt a hand come to rest on his shoulder.  
''I will be here. We have succeeded, Eldarion Telcontar. The world will remember, even if the truth fade to myth. The rest...is for me to do.'' ~


	36. When The Stars Fall

  
~ Eldarion chose to die and be buried in Annúminas. In this he broke from the long tradition that the kings and stewards of Gondor were taken to Rath Dínen and laid in the Houses of the Dead in Minas Tirith. The King knew it mattered not where his body lay, and there would be no time to carry it south.

He dismissed his sons, and gave the winged crown and scepter to Halon, the old and regenerate prince who would never become a king. Then, in ancient tradition of the kings of Númenor, he lay down to accept death alone. It was dawn. He would pass when the stars came out in the evening. For this last day he would remember his long life and turn both sadness and joy, love and hate over in his mind as a man might turn over gold in his cellar.

But he would not die quite alone. Once the doors were closed, a dark figure moved from the balcony and crossed to the bed.

''I cannot imagine a death that does not have you in it,'' Eldarion murmured. The long hair that was drawn to lie over the coverlets was still black, his face unlined. He looked in the prime of his strength and power, not a man about to lay down his life.

''One day Arda will be remade and then we will meet again,'' Vanimórë said. "It was the last flare of the candle."

''And people will remember?''

"Yes. In their legends, in their dreams, in the blood which runs in their veins. Visions in the dusk, music on the edges of their minds."

''I am glad I will not see it end.'' The king gripped Vanimórë's hand, looked at him, into the violet eyes where stars seemed to explode and die.

''I am sorry about Elgalad. I should have had the resolution to give you up. I know it hurt him.''

''He knows I had lovers and he knows why. I take too much from him. He is too good for me, which is why I need him.'' There was pain then, naked in the rich voice. ''But thou and I have been more than lovers, we have been friends, and that is rare.''

''Yes.'' Eldarion sounded surprised. ''We have been friends, who would have believed such a thing?''

''I thank thee for thy friendship. Power is held in isolation. Thus even more than love or lust, friendship is a rare jewel of great price.'' Long fingers ran over the king's brow. ''Sleep now, Eldarion Telcontar.''

"Do you know," the last King said, smiling. "When I felt most alive? In battle, when we fought against Khand and Chey Sart, in Moria, even. I should have been born in an earlier Age, Vanimórë. I never felt I belonged in this one." 

"Oh, Eldarion." Vanimórë kissed him, long and lingering, traced his fingers down the still-beautiful face. "I hear thee. I have never felt I belonged in any age. Now rest, my dear." 

Eldarion could see stars. They were shining through Vanimórë. All else seemed to dim, become nebulous, the room, the clasp on his hand; it was as if he moved beyond all of them. 

''_Adar,_'' he said with joy, as if meeting some-one after a long separation.  
His fingers relaxed under Vanimórë's, and Eldarion died.

''Farewell, sweet prince.'' Vanimórë kissed his brow.

The room was silent for a time, and then a bell tolled. Others took up the slow chime. Vanimórë walked to the window. A shooting star blazed across the sky. He heard voices rise from the palace and streets as it ran from west to east.

He took a deep breath.

_The time is upon me._

_It is now._

Pressure was building in his chest. Grief with yet more to come. So much grief..._Too much_. He lifted his hand. The ruby glowered at him.

There had been, in the end, no choice. None at all. He needed Elgalad more and more as the Imperium elevated him to a godhood he had never sought, and the weight of it sat upon him like a mountain. He could have fallen into the abyss which waited before his feet, become a dark and terrible power, save for Elgalad's love.

_I am no god,_ he had proclaimed, and his words meant nothing to the people. They saw him as immortal and powerful, and the last decades had been hued in blood-red. The punishments he meted out on those who sacrificed to him were savage. His subjects had needed no prompting from Sauron; they had turned back to the Dark. Vanimórë's retributions served only to enhance the beliefs that blood would please the Dark God.

_Thou didst not fail, Eldarion. I did. I met violence with violence, because the sword is all I know. I protected thee and thy kingdom, and without adversity, it fell into sloth and decadence. _

Yet the Imperium prospered, and Vanimórë controlled the volatile nations with a hand of steel. He sent out great fleets to the unknown lands across the Straits of the World and the Sea of the East, and they carried legends with them. Some would survive. 

_I failed. And I will have long Ages to regret._

Another star burned a path down across the dark sky, and he knew there was no more time.

_Fëanor!_

_I am here. It is done. Glorfindel will protect New Cuiviénen. I wait here for the ones thou say will come. _

_ I must go to Lórien. _ Vanimórë's soul screamed, and it seemed it would not stop. _ Thence to New Cuiviénen. And then..._

_I will be there for thee. _ Fëanor's mind voice was unwontedly gentle.

_Look after thy people. _

He turned his head, gazed through walls, across river and mountain and forest. To Lórien.

_Oh, my dear one._

He melted into fire, and vanished.

***

There had arisen, in the last hundred years, a group of people called the Faithful, and they named themselves that with pride, in memory of the Faithful of Númenor. They were called, sneeringly, ''The Elf-lovers.'' Some were noble, others of the commonalty. They were safe from persecution while Eldarion ruled, but had many enemies among the True Men who intended to take their lands and wealth when the King died. Dinalagos, son of Halon lead the True Men, hating the Elves and fearing them, an attitude which extended to all who were not of the High Kingdom and _True Men._ He intended to annex Lindon. His father would not long survive Eldarion, he had plans in place for that.

This was the tragedy of the House of Telcontar: Eldarion appeared younger than any of his sons' or grandchildren, and the love they bore him soured to envy. Assassinations had been attempted, and failed, some said it was because Eldarion was a friend of the Dark God, who saw all things.

The King was regarded with love and with awe by the common people, and by either reverence or dislike by the nobles. There was no middle ground. Among his descendents these emotions were divided, but there were several who turned back to the old ways, and Balrant was the leader among them.

Balrant the Bastard, he was called by the True Men.

The old refuge near Annúminas continued to take in children long after Elgalad was gone, and it was an open secret that some of the orphans were byblows. 

Balrant had been left outside the house under cover of darkness, as many were. Unlike most, he was swaddled in fine cloths, and a pouch of gold was tucked among them. The orphanage took him in, and he was raised there until he was of an age to decide which trade he would follow. Nothing would do for him but become a soldier, and serve the King, though as a profession soldiering was no longer in fashion.

The Captain of the Royal Guard at Annúminas laughed, telling him to come back when he was grown, and Balrant's response had earned him a hard slap. The youth's spitting invective as he was hustled roughly from the yard was heard by Eldarion, returning from the stables. With one long look at the furious youth, he asked for an explanation.

"Our best soldiers are from the merchant or villein class, Maendir," he had said. ''You are yourself. I see no reason to turn him away. We do not get many that are so eager.''

''Sire, he is small and too young, he says he is fourteen, but look at those arms; like sticks. Eight or ten, I make him. We are not the Imperium, Sire, to make soldiers from children.''

''No, we are not," Eldarion agreed. "But the lad will grow and in the meantime, he can be taught the ways and values of a soldier. What is your name, young one?''

''They call me Balrant, Sire,'' the boy offered, ruffled and glowing.

''A goodly name.'' Eldarion had looked into the winter-grey eyes under webs of black hair. ''Welcome, Balrant. I will observe you with much interest.''

People whispered he was a changeling, for as he grew he exhibited many traits of the Elves, or perhaps his Númenorean blood ran strong. He lingered as small in stature until he was twenty, when he grew tall and filled out the promise of wide shoulders and long legs. By then, he was already skilled in the arts of sword and bow, and was loved by the king.

Others came to love him too, for he was courteous in the old manner, although the True Men disdained him as illegitimate and resented his closeness to Eldarion. But such was his strength and facility with weapons, in these times when swords were worn as ornaments, that few would openly confront him. He was too fast and needed no sword, when his fists could land a blow like a hammer. Once he shamed a drunk young noble by soundly beating him with the flat of his great-sword. This earned him no punishment; he was a favorite of the king and the Faithful, and though he held no title, was thus a power in the High Kingdom. His closest friend was Brandir, a byblow of one of the king's grandsons, another warrior unchancy to cross. 

***

The men had been drinking and riding hard for three days.

The High Kingdom knew when Eldarion had chosen to die, and the True Men, hungry for war had long planned what they would do. Dinalagos, son of Crown Prince Halon, was leading two thousand armed men into Lindon in a surprise attack which would see the Elf Kingdom fall even as Eldarion gave up his life.

Yet Lindon seemed deserted. They lit torches as the stars came out, shouted and laughed to raised the sleeping Elves.

''A house, there,'' one man cried, seeing the jut of a roof against the sky. They turned and galloped, whooping, toward it.

***

Balrant had been preparing for this time for five years, when Eldarion sent him secretly to Gil-galad. He was greeted with friendship, and came to love the Elves. Eldarion had already told him much of their history, and from the Elves themselves the young man learned more. When the truth was revealed to him, he spoke of the Faithful and asked that they might be saved, even as some had been when Númenor was destroyed.

_"For not all are evil, and there are many who hold to honor." _

Gil-galad had convened to speak with his closest councilors, and when he returned to Balrant, he said, "This must be done with great secrecy. If many are seen crossing our borders, we will be accused of kidnap and of sorcery. Even the king may be hard pressed to prevent an attack upon us. We do not fear that, but we would not have war before the end." 

And so the news went among the Faithful and, gradually, they began to disappear. Not all believed, and some refused to go, saying that if the Elves foretold the end of the world, they would die in their own lands. But from Dol Amroth they came, and Ithilien and Rohan, even Umbar, and further south and east yet, a small, steady trickle of men, women and children heading north and west.  
Of those who vanished it was said that they left the High Kingdom, afraid for their lives. Their lands were seized and added to the honors of the True Men.  
The last had left two seasons before, and only Balrant and Brandir remained. Balrant meant to wait until he heard the bells toll for the death of the king. They were sitting in the great silence of the palace when a man entered, travel-worn and weary.

''Three days ago, they left from Dinalagos' hunting lodge.'' The man, sweating, had soaked up the scent of his horse. ''Two thousand. I have not tarried. And you have not seen me or my life would be forfeit.'' He bowed, and would have slipped away.

''Wait.'' Balrant came to his feet. He went to this man, whom he knew only as a face, and spoke to him. When he was done, the other was very pale. He nodded once. 

"I have no wife, and my parents are dead," he said, low. "And my dreams have been troubled of late. I will go, and I thank-you." He left the room. Balrant realized he must be one of the messengers Eldarion had used to keep in contact with Gil-galad, thus would know the way.

''Dinalagos will find nothing,'' Brandir said. 

The door opened to admit an old man. He had served Eldarion for fifty years, and there were unashamed tears in his eyes as he handed a sealed letter to Balrant. 

The King's writing was as strong and emphatic as it had ever been.

"_Of all those sprung from me, only you, Balrant, have loved me. Do not wait for my death. There is too much danger in it. You have earned hate, even as I did, even as did Elendil long ago. Go now, and may the One guard and guide you. Do not weep for me. My life has been full, and I will not be alone.  
Live well, Balrant Telcontar. Your mother named you_ Estelion , Son of Hope. Go when this reaches you by the hand of my faithful Iorthon. This is my first and last command to you, my son, who I have loved more deeply than any other of my loins." 

Balrant's eyes rose to Iorthon's in shock. The old man was nodding, moisture gathered in the wrinkles about his eyes.

''What does this mean?'' Balrant whispered. And he thought, _ I always loved him as a father, always, since the first time I saw him..._

''You are the king's son, lord. There are many reasons why it was kept from you. The answers lie with the Noldor of Lindon. You must go. Those who wish you ill already sharpen their knives.''

''He is right,'' Brandir said quietly. ''Come.''

''You knew?'' Balrant asked.

''The King took me into his confidence four years ago. I am kin to you and love you, and he wanted me to watch over you.''

"I know a way." Iorthon's voice was urgent. "I will show you. Horses wait. Lord, if you love your father, come now."

''May the One welcome you into glory, dear king. Dear father.'' Balrant bowed his head. ''I am ready. Iorthon, I have loved him, tell him that.''

''He knows, my lord.'' The old man drew something from a scrip at his waist. ''Halon refused this, he said it was a reminder of the Elves which should be forgotten, that there was some evil magic in it which would twist the mind. The King desired it pass to you.'' Lifting one of Balrant's slender fingers, he slipped on a ring, fashioned the form of twin serpents with eyes of emeralds, their heads meeting beneath a crown of golden flowers which one upheld and the other devoured.

''The Ring of Barahir.'' Balrant's eyes stung. ''He gives me this?''

"You would be the true king, were there any justice in this world," Iorthon said. "But for the king to own you would have been to sign your death warrant. Come now, time is short."

***

''Loose-bellied idiots,'' Balrant seethed as they rode, hooded and cloaked. ''The Noldor will cut them to pieces.''

He suspected that Dinalagos had been responsible for the attack on the Elf-woman five years ago, and since then had stayed close to the border of Lindon to do what he could.

''They will all have gone,'' Brandir said.

''They said they would wait for us.'' Balrant urged his mount faster.

''Look!'' Brandir drew rein.

''I know.'' Balrant's eyes eyes followed the trail of the King Star as it plumed across the sky. ''He is dead. May the One keep him.'' Tears fell upon his cheeks.  
_ Oh, father, why did you never tell me? And now it is too late._

The River Lhûn lay behind them and unlike those who had come before, Balrant knew the straightest way to the palace of Lindon.

''Eru...'' he exclaimed.

Not one, but many stars were falling, they seemed to drop straight down from heaven's vault in blue-white streams.

''It is as if the sky weeps stars for the death of Eldarion,'' Brandir whispered.

''I have never seen so many.'' Balrant was uneasy. ''Harbingers. We must hurry.''

***

The great mansion was empty. There were no hangings, little furniture. Smoking torches glinted off walls and pillars which shimmered like liquid. Ceilings high above gave back fractured sparks of color, gold and red, and the mens' boots echoed. There was no-one to fight, nothing to loot.

Dinalagos swore and reached for a wineskin. ''Where is every-one?''

''Sailed, maybe?'' one of his followers, Bornion, offered. ''Is that not what they do, the Elves? Some say they can talk to birds and see the future. They might have seen what was to happen to them and run?''

''Then we have Lindon on a platter,'' gloated Dinalagos. ''A pity there are none of their women around, but they cannot all be gone, come!'' He jerked his head and they followed him out. A road stretched ahead of them, a pale streak running between green fields, now grey in the night. The hooves of the tired horses sounded harsh, jarring the silence.

''Look there!'' They pulled up as the shooting star fumed across the sky, were silent for a heartbeat before a cheer sounded from the men.

''A sign, a sign! The King is dead. Hail to the new King!''

''What is that, Sire?'' A soldier shouted, pointing to the north west.

''Ah,'' Dinalagos grinned. ''So we at last find some-one at home.''

The palace awed them for a moment. Every blue-white lamp in it blazed out through windows which showed green, gamboge, scarlet, cobalt-blue. Some great gathering was clearly being held here.

''They mourn the death of our King,'' a man slurred.

''Then they will not be expecting guests.'' Dinalagos drew his sword.

The soldiers rampaged into the palace. Wine-flown and shouting, they burst through doors into shining rooms and found them all deserted. In thwarted anger they separated, running up spiraling stairs, along passageways, out into gardens where all that was audible was the plash of fountains.

Dinalagos cursed vilely. ''Cowards! I wager they flee to their ships and left the place alight to draw us from the chase.'' He unloosed his breeches, urinated in a high arc against a wall image of a warrior standing with sword upraised under the shadow of a monster.

''Here, Sire.'' Bornion grabbed one of the lamps. Set into the floor were three blazing jewels a hand-span wide. "Diamond," he exclaimed as the pommel of his sword left no scratch. He drew a dagger which skittered across it, tried to set the tip in the seamless join, and grunted. ''This whole place is a jewel casket!''

Hearing him, men began to examine the floors and walls, prying and hammering, cursing as their weapons were unable to cut the embedded gems from the marble. Fights broke out and heads were cracked, noses broken.

''Wine, Sire!'' Three men burst in to the great Hall, carrying casks. ''We found it yonder.''

The belligerence of the men quietened as the barrels were tapped. They gathered wine in their helmets, guzzling it down. It was rich as broth, tasted of autumn berries and honey, and soon laughter and the false camaraderie of drink replaced pugnacity. They turned back desultorily to their working on the gems, but soon boasts and jests and crude laughter bounced from pillar to wall as Dinalagos spoke of his plans for the High Kingdom, the new laws he would declare, the riches which would flow into the hands of all who supported him.

''Halon will be dead before the week is out,'' some-one declared. ''Old fool, and now the half-Elf King is dead, and True Men can bestride the world as they should.''

''Ay, and we will take war to the Imperium and that cursed Dark God. Faugh!'' The prince spat. ''He is no God, just a prancing Elf like these here, who crept away in fear. Eldarion never looked high enough. We could rule all Arda.''

A chorus of cheers erupted, and more wine was broached. Men leaned back against the pillars, looking up at the splendor around them which gleamed back in cold silence.

''Only women would live like this,'' Dinalagos sneered, and squatted to defecate on an insignia of cobalt and silver. ''I shit on the Elves!'' Coarse laughter rebounded in tangles of sound from the marble as others loosed their leggings, emptied their bowels on the beauty under their feet.

''Wallowing in filth, Dinalagos. Yes, somehow that suits you,'' came a clear, sober voice from the colonnade.

The prince squinted, surging to his feet.  
''Well, if it is not the dead King's lap-dog and his bum boy,'' he cried. ''What are you doing here, Bastard? Did some Elf-fucker tell you our plans? If you came to warn your friends, you are too late.''

''Where are they?'' Balrant asked.

''Perhaps we killed them all,'' Bornien taunted.

''You?'' Brandir lifted his brows. The prince ignored him.

''They have all run away, that is one thing the bloody Elves seem to be good at. Showing their arses to people!'' Dinalagos laughed uproariously.

''A fool to the end,'' Balrant said. ''Our King lies _dead!_'' His voice caught. ''And you attack a peaceful land, swill like swine, and act as if you were bred of _orcs!_'' The last word was solid with contempt.

''Miss his royal cock up your arse, do you?'' The prince belched and wiped his mouth. ''Well, maybe I will give you a little taste of a _ True Man_ before I kill you, _catamite._''

Two swords flashed in the lanterns light, and the first blundering wave of men fell, tripping and fouling those behind them.  
Balrant and Brandir killed in silence. There was not one wasted move as they cut, parried, ducked and sliced, sword-brothers who defended one another even while they slew. These toadies and lordlings were not soldiers, and the wine slowed their reactions. Blood pooled on the marble, flowing about the piles of excrement, but gradually Balrant and Brandir were forced back. There were too many pressing forward, pot-valiant, and now enraged. Without looking, the young men flipped backward down the steps of the colonnade onto the lawn.

A whine cut the air. Arrows plummeted down into the ranks of the men who surged after them. Almost before the first volley hit the second punched into neck and groin. Those further back stopped dead, scattered behind pillars. Dinalagos, his mouth hanging slack, saw three shining figures advancing across the garden.

They were armored from neck to foot in steel worked soft as cloth, and plumed helms were upon their heads. Very tall they were, and their eyes burned like lamps in a black room. Discarding the great long-bows, they drew swords, one of which shone like the a flick of sunlight, and he who bore bore it looked straight at the stupefied Dinalagos with eyes of molten diamond.

''Welcome, Prince Estelion, Lord Brandir,'' he said in a voice like gold upon crystal. ''We have been waiting for thee. Shall we end this, and depart? Time is short.''

Balrant knew a moment of sheer delight. He did not recognize this man (although he would wager on whom it must be.) but the two others he knew: Gil-galad, and Tindómion Maglorion, said to be his closest companion and lover.

The Elf said, ''I am Fëanor.'' He saluted with his sword and strode past the men and up the steps.

It was carnage. No other word could describe the systematic destruction wreaked upon Dinalagos' men. They were panicked, close-packed, and their flailing with the delicate rapiers they bore did more harm to their own comrades than their opponents. The Elves moved in blurs which confused the eye, their swords dragged streams of light through the air. They trod blood as they advanced and came at last to where Dinalagos and his flunky, Bornien, were backed into the darkest corner they could find. With a desperate scream, Bornien sprang out, waving his slim blade, His head bounced and rolled, coming to rest against the wall.

''And thou art?'' Fëanor asked Dinalagos contemptuously and, as only huffed breaths came in answer, Balrant said, ''Dinalagos, grandson of Eldarion.''

Like a lick of frozen sunfire, the laen sword flashed, its point resting on the man's throat.

''Thy King died this night. I respected him, fought beside him, and thou dost honor his death with..._this?_ Thou art of his blood? I find that hard to believe.'' A gauntleted hand seized the man and dragged him forth, past piled bodies, where excrement, blood and entrails blotted the gleam of the diamonds that represented the Silmarilli. 

''Those stones, knowest thou what they denote?''

The prince's head shook from side to side. 

''I will be king, you cannot harm me!'' His words came through a dry mouth. ''I will lead an army into Lindon, and raze it to the ground." Crimson suffused his bloated cheeks. "I will make it so people forget even its name!'' His hate burst forth in the language of the sewer. The faces which looked back at him were etched by the blue-white light, dispassionate and beautiful as statues.

Something warm dripped on his cheek. His eyes blurred and he blinked. Tears were streaming down his cheeks. He thought in horror that he wept from fear, unknowing — until he saw the droplets which dashed upon the floor were red.

He groped for fresh curses as the gemfire eyes gleamed brighter and brighter. Balrant watched in horror as Dinalagos' eye-sockets filled with blood. It coursed down his cheeks, a gout spewed from his slack mouth, and a scream started in his throat, skirling up to an animal wail. The cords of his neck bulged. A scarlet gush plumed from his mouth. 

''Filth unto filth.'' Fëanor loosed his hold, and the dying man fell face down into the mire, spasming. The fire still flamed in his eyes as he said, ''Come.''

The young men breathed deeply of the sweet air in the garden. The High King strode ahead, crossing from one wing of the palace to another. As he trod lightly up the marble steps he turned, and Balrant saw his eyes become reflections of the sky. He looked around. Streams of stars made the night as bright as day.

''We have lingered too long.'' Fëanor nodded to Gil-galad. ''Lead, Gil.''

They hastened down long passages until they came to a great double door. When it was opened it showed a smooth slope leading down. Gil-galad and Tindómion locked and barred the door behind them, and they descended, coming to another. This too was closed and bolted, and every step thenceforth was downward.

Time seemed to have no meaning here. The walls were smooth and unadorned and, save the occasional swooping turns, they might have been walking through the same point in space hour after hour. The tunnel was wide enough for two wagons abreast, and its highest point four ells above their heads. As they walked, Gil-galad came abreast of Balrant. He took his hand and raised it, seeing the glint of the ring through drying blood.

''Thy lineage and thy birthing, Estelion, is part of a plan which was conceived long ago, as Mortals count the years. We have told thee that Elder Earth passes. The stars which fall herald the end. We would have died and been forgotten, save that one person was determined he would save what he could. Thou wilt know him as the Dark God of the Imperium.''

''I saw him once. The king spoke of him with great respect.'' Balrant was feeling the effects of killing for the first time. Only the fact that he and Brandir were compelled to keep walking kept them on their feet. Both shivered, although the air was not cold. The stench of blood and bile seemed to cling in their nostrils.

''Eldarion loved him in a way, desired him certainly, but they were also friends.'' The matter-of-fact tone was calming. ''Although it is very rare for a Mortal and Elf to join, it has happened. Lúthien is thy foremother through Eldarion. He wanted to sire a son to carry the memory of his life, who might lead the Elf-Friends to safety, and would return his bloodline to the Elves he loved. A woman of our people looked on thy father with favor, and said she would bear his child.''

"I — my mother is an _Elf?_ People said I was a changeling..." Balrant came to an abrupt halt. ''Who..who is she, Sire?''

A smile flashed over Gil-galad's face, and Tindómion looked back with an answering gleam.

''She is a woman of high heart and courage, and both those qualities lead her to an untimely death in the First Age.'' It was Fëanor who spoke. ''Her name is Aredhel, daughter of Fingolfin. She saw Eldarion long ago in Imladris, and liked him well.''

Dumbly, Balrant looked at his friend. And then it was that the air around them shook. Dust sifted down like flour from the ceiling.

Fëanor looked up as if he could see through the rock above their heads.

''It is time, Vanimórë,'' he said. And softer, ''I will hold on to thee, I swear it.'' ~


	37. The End Of Elder Earth

  
~ It was hard to know what was dream, what was real. There was the desire, the act of love. That he demanded, needed. But it was, always had been more than love, more than sex. Vanimórë, he thought, when he could think, did not understand that. 

Vanimórë was always there when he woke in the _talan_ on Cerin Amroth. He tried to eat at first, to take that ever-deepening look of self-loathing from the violet eyes, but food was no longer necessary. 

He thought, at the last, that Vanimórë was always there, and perhaps he was. Elgalad lay in the scent of sandalwood, the silk of hair, the flame which was all that kept him alive, all that brought him back. That was killing him.

Lórien was empty of people save the one who remained, in dreams of gold, dreams of passion. The new leaves were on the trees, and the wind was in the south that night.

Vanimórë gazed down on Elgalad. He was a silver candle-flame. It seemed as if a light were shone upon him it would pass through muscle and flesh and bone. Vanimórë could not speak, could scarce breathe. 

_ Why should I care, in the end, what remains? If he is not here with me, then I am nothing. But because of thee I do care. And I always knew it would end like this..._

Ages opened before him like the entrance to a tomb, he felt the drag of Time, the fetters that bound him to the world. He would walk the Earth like a corpse, searching for one who was gone.

How strange...Love was the blade that harrowed his soul. Not Morgoth, nor Sauron, not hate. Love. And had he not loved, how different it — he — would have been. Love was his mother's gift to him. He had loved his sister in the mist and cold of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, and thus had been able to love Elgalad, born to save him.  
And his ability to love had never been destroyed. Maglor in Barad-dûr had evoked pity and lust, but above all the desire to protect; each time he felt these emotions, so irreconcilable to those of the Dark Lords, he was himself, not a creature fashioned into a shadowy reflection of evil.

He had always seen Elgalad as the one who needed his love. He was wrong. It was _he, himself_ who needed it. Long ago, his thread had been sewn into the great tapestry of Arda. And Eru knew that without love, the son of Sauron would fall, become terrible in his darkness, the last Dark Lord before the End, who would welcome Morgoth back through the Gates of Night.

And so another thread had been added, a name of love, and the two had woven together. Because of Elgalad, Vanimórë trod a path as narrow as blade over a chasm of blackness, but he balanced, would not fall. He had seen what he might become, and then a face formed of innocence and eyes filled with trust had smiled at him. He had turned away from the darkness, opened his soul to Light.

''Do not weep.''  
Through the tears, he saw that Elgalad had woken. His eyes were unearthly, as if a light shone behind them that could blind the world, blanch the sun.  
''I was born to love thee.''

Vanimórë went down on his knees. No words would come. To speak would be to break. He felt fingers touch his cheek.

''Listen now, my heart,'' Elgalad said, and his voice was clear. There was power in it, as alien as his eyes. "For I know. It is done. To give to thee the love thou didst not receive. In full measure. The cup is full."

Vanimórë shook his head. _Too much. Thou hast given too much. And I could not refuse it. _

His vaunted control! He had felt only contempt for Ungoliant's pawns, the daughter's of Elessar who glutted their lusts, but he had gorged himself on Elgalad, because one look from those eyes and he was lost. 

_ Yes. Thou wert supposed to be lost. _ And: _As was I. Thou didst think it ran one way only, that_ I _ did not need?_

Elgalad raised himself and kissed Vanimórë. The cup brimmed, spilled over. There was nothing left. His soul broke free. Vanimórë felt it pass through him, a storm of love, of flame that took his breath. Then the light dimmed and was gone.

There was no word for the pain.

_I am nothing without thee. I am truly Nothing and No-One._

His heart beat in slow, reluctant strokes.

_Forever and forever..._

He felt himself move. He lifted Elgalad's body. There was the brief sensation of crossing the Earth from place to place, then laying Elgalad down. Some-one waited there. He had asked them to. many years ago.

Maglor was preternaturally still, as if to move would shatter him. Elgalad's silver hair flooded over the pillows, blurred before Vanimórë's eyes. 

And now there was no time....Vanimórë was outside the palace, not knowing how he had got there. He looked up. Now. It was now. If grief had a purpose, it was this. He slipped the leash on his emotions; they jetted up from the wells of his anguish, the excoriating lava of his soul.

Almost distantly, he was aware of Glorfindel's power clashing walls of protection about New Cuiviénen, and his words:  
_ Ah, my friend. I will hold._

***

His soul felt the call. In the Halls of Waiting there would be silence, a time of reflection and, after a time, rebirth. He could walk in Valinor, find his father and mother...but he would never find the one he sought for. Vanimórë would never come to him in the gardens of Lórien where poppy and cedar perfumed the air. He would never come, because he would never risk Elgalad again.

_I will not go,_ he said. _ My soul will remain on Middle-earth._

Elgalad turned from the call; a mist of silver, a light on the edge of a wood at dusk, a brush of moonlight falling on a forest floor. A memory of love.

The sun rose in the west.

The asteroid, one of a group which had formed about the young Earth in the making of it, had an erratic orbit, which at times brought it close to the planet. Tumbling through darkness, through the Ages, surrounded by a myriad of smaller detritus, it was drawn in by the gravity of the rocky world, its course direct as doom. It was no act of Morgoth, no malice which directed it, although in after days people would believe it was sent by the One as a punishment upon the wicked. It was chance, nothing more.

Vanimórë felt his body destroyed. He became pure energy, an arrow fired from the bow of his will, out of grief, out of love, a spear of light which flashed from the surface of the Earth to collide with the approaching asteroid.

_Almost too late..._already entering the upper envelope of airs which girdled the world, the great rock had begun to glow like another sun.

_Help me, _ was his last thought, and although he no longer possessed physical form he felt a hand, strong as steel grip his, the touch of a mind filled with fire.

_I am with thee._ Fëanor, shining like the Silmarilli.

_ I have thee._ Glorfindel's golden storm-aura.

The force of the collision shattered the asteroid. It detonated, fragmenting in an airburst which encompassed the world. Every eye that saw it was blinded, every eardrum burst. Flaming fragments plummeted through the skies.

Shock waves circled the planet as the meteors struck. Volcanoes burst their lava chambers. Earthquakes cracked the sea-floor, pushed up great waves that crossed the oceans and drank the land. Proud cities vanished, forests exploded into fire, electrical storms darkened the skies. Clouds melded with the uprushing fume from every active volcano on the planet.

And then came the rain.

The Flood they would call it, those who survived, for there were some, as Vanimórë had believed and hoped. Most cultures of the world preserved legends of a great flood, and archaeologists found evidence that it was more than myth. Rivers changed their courses, the seas rose. Vulcanism changed the shape of mountain ranges. Great lakes were created, others drained away. A pall settled upon the earth, the atmosphere thick with ash.

In the years that followed the survivors fought to live in a world that had darkened. In diverse places, great ruins slowly crumbled, or were buried under rains of mud and ash which entombed them. In time, vegetation cast a living mantle over forgotten cities.

But in the half-remembered stories, there were glimpses of a time when there were gods and Elves, great Kingdoms of Men, a Golden Age, long lost. One of the oldest myths told of a blessed land in the uttermost West. Numerous cultures spoke of The Blessed Isles, the Fortunate Islands, the Elysian Fields, the Garden of the Hesperides. Perhaps this was a race memory of Númenor, or even of Valinor. Those who knew, were silent...

***

The stars pricked out. Their patterns had changed in the wheeling of the years.

The mountains challenged the sky in ramparts and crenelated towers of stone. By day eagles wheeled upon the updrafts, and ravens called above the corries. Now, only a breeze moved over the rocks.

He stood upon a peak of stone, framed and crowned by the night. Moonlight caressed white skin, drowned in black hair, burned violet in his eyes. Motionless he stood upon the heights of the world, then stepped down into shadow and was gone. His passing revealed the Menelvagor,* the Swordsman of the Sky, Guardian of Arda, ever watchful, until the end of days. ~


	38. Twilight Of A God

~ He was destruction, a weapon, as his father had always intended, and he was two-edged. Arda suffered; he could not avoid that. After, there was no way for him to measure time, and he burned alone with his grief. What urged him back, he did not know, save that form and life pulled at him. He remembered what, and whom he was. Drawing images from his mind, he spun forth the power within him.  
  
He saw stars. It was his first sight with these new eyes. Menelvagor, Swordsman of the Sky wheeled above him. One arm was raised in challenge against the return of the oldest evil at the end of days. He looked at it for a long moment, wishing that he was as inhuman, that he could not feel, could not mourn.  
  
He felt grass under him, smelled its vitality. Grass, an unclouded sky, wind over his bare flesh, the sound of running water. It might have been long ago in an older world. He thought he might glance around and see Elgalad beside him.  
  
He came to his feet, felt the play of muscle as he balanced himself, set his feet firm on the earth. His throat closed, palpitated with monstrous anguish.  
  
_Dead of love, dead of me, lost to me until the end._  
  
"Why?" He asked the emotionless stars. Tears caught their remote glimmer.  
  
He knew why.  
  
_Fashioned as a weapon of the dark..._  
  
Dawn broke in splendor, and he rose to the sky, surveyed the world as a great eagle might. The shape of the lands had been little changed, but he could see where waters had drowned the coasts, where new vulcanism had erupted. Mountains were scarred, rivers had vanished or changed their courses.  
He saw new inland seas. Surely that was Nurnen and the Sea of Rhun? As day wheeled into night he watched, seeing here and there the men who had survived and multiplied. There in a land where two mighty rivers flowed, were pockets of civilization that recalled to him the earliest peoples in the First Age; houses of mud-brick, herds of sheep and goats, wandering tribes who had settled, begun to grow crops.  
  
How long had it been?  
  
Far away, a light seen on a hilltop at night, glowed the aura of New Cuiviénen. It had survived. Lindon? he wondered, and those who had taken refuge under Khazad-dûm?  
  
Yes.  
  
He came to the north, seeing a great bite in the coast where once had been green Lindon beyond the Ered Luin. The sea was peaceful in the pale dawn.  
  
He could scarce believe what had gone. Mighty civilizations, his own among them, had been obliterated. Towers, walls, priceless artifacts were broken and buried deep under the sea or earth.  
  
Yet Men had survived and the Elves too. Dwarves and Hobbits passing into the deep places. His mind struggled grimly from abyssal grief. He stared into the west, prayed that Elgalad walked now in the gardens of Lórien, united with his father, his mother. His mind did not seek Aman, nor the one he loved. Even were he welcome there, he would not bring Elgalad back only to die again. Never again. Long ago he had said,_ It must be forever, Meluion. Until the sky breaks and the mountains fall into the Great Sea and the End cometh, there is no world for us._  
  
The sky had broken and the mountains fallen, but it was not the end. There was still no world for them. He had drunk the cup offered him and drained it to the dregs. Elgalad's last kiss still burned on his mouth. Elgalad's body lay dead and immaculate in New Cuiviénen. Why he had asked for that he did not know; Elven bodies turned quickly to dust in the normal way of things. Perhaps he had wanted to punish himself by seeing what he had murdered. Because he had, wantonly, and with famished hunger. As he had to. He was still a weapon, whether of Sauron or Eru. There was great power in love, and it seemed, a greater potentiality in the death of that love, in the death of Elgalad. Vanimórë's grief had destroyed his body, allowed him to channel himself into energy, into passion great enough to shatter that oncoming asteroid.  
  
He understood necessity, that everything had a price. And yet —  
  
_— I killed thee. I could not get enough of thee. I took too much, and wanted more. The overflowing cup._  
  
He could imagine Elgalad protesting at that, shook his head at whimsy, then a presence as real as the rising sun and yet more brilliant exploded into his mind like a star.  
  
** Vanimórë**  
  
Silmaril incarnate, Fëanor walked down the beach. He came to a halt before Vanimórë, looked at him for a long moment, then kissed him on the mouth. The touch was fire.  
  
"It has been too long."  
  
Vanimórë scraped up words, formed them in his mind then spoke carefully.  
"How many survived?"  
  
"Most of them. We built well, we and the Dwarves. For three thousand years the sun has risen and set. Now the Hobbits dwell above ground, and the Men. Many of the Silvan Elves returned to their woods."  
  
"I felt thee. Glorfindel and thee."  
  
"Did I not tell thee I would hold to thee?" Fëanor's face was too bright to look upon. "Some of us wouldst never come back. I chose to believe thou wouldst; there is too much life in thee to drift bodiless among the stars."  
  
Vanimórë shrugged. "I am bound to Arda."  
  
  
"I went to New Cuiviénen when things had grown calmer." Fëanor took him by the shoulders. There was a gentleness in his eyes that Vanimórë knew few save his sons ever saw. He strained for control.  
"I knew he would die. I knew when. And I could not — " It was too much. His voice broke. "I could not withhold."  
  
"Neither could I have."  
  
Suddenly there were enough words, hot and violent.  
"Do not make excuses for me. I could have sent him away —"  
  
"No," The Silmarilli eyes were like a vise, holding Vanimórë's torment. "Without him thou wouldst have become the Enemy."  
  
"I still may."  
  
Fëanor shook his head. "He will not allow thee."  
  
"He is not here. He walks the paths of Lórien, dreams where the poppies of sleep bloom. He will find peace there." He stopped at the look on Fëanor's face. "What?" he whispered, cold under the sun.  
  
"Ah, Eru." Fëanor's hold tightened to pain. "Thou art bound to Arda. Elgalad knew it. Why would he choose to go to the Halls of Waiting?"  
  
Vanimórë felt the ground tilt under him. The blood ran out of his face.  
  
"He never..." He groped for words. "He _refused?_"  
  
Why had he not thought of this? Why had he been so certain that Elgalad would follow the path to peace?  
  
In the strange limbo, his soul spread through the aether, starlight and wind, sunlight and power, Vanimórë had withdrawn into his own abyss of grief and contemplation.  
He had not known. His hands came up, clenched on Fëanor's arms.  
  
"I feel his soul. As wilt thou. Maglor saw him once, a shape of silver in the forest."  
  
Vanimórë dropped to his knees. He gagged for air, forcing it past the constriction that closed his throat.  
  
_There will be no rebirth until the end..._  
  
Fëanor was beside him on the sand, holding him as he struggled like one drowning.  
  
"_No._" The word was racked by agony. "I was not worth that! "  
  
"Do not render worthless what he felt for thee. Yes, he was too good for thee, for me, for any-one. That was why he was chosen. That was why his love saved thee. Because of him thou art the Guardian of Arda, who will confront Morgoth at the End of Days. And then, all things will be made anew."  
  
Vanimórë's head shook from side to side in denial.  
"He is unhoused."  
  
Fëanor said nothing. The violet eyes rose to his. They were no tears in them. For a moment they burned red as a dying sun.  
  
"I will go to New Cuiviénen."  
  
"Thou wilt punish thyself to no purpose."  
  
"Yes. And do I not have cause?" The words came scoured.  
  
"No. We held to thee, Glorfindel and I, as Elgalad wanted us to." Fëanor drew his fingers through the tousled hair, kissed him again, with power and with passion, then walked away.  
_Come back to us, Vanimórë._  
  
  
***  
  
  
He knew the lands. Even in the tumult of their destruction he had wandered them, searching. Rains came, the earth smoked, settled, forests grew again, and the seasons wheeled and passed. And he searched, not knowing how many years bled into one another. He felt other souls, some gentle as fireflies on the edges of the woods at dusk, others that flamed white-hot, but did not find the one he sought. He searched. He waited.  
  
And when it came it struck him as the pull of a strong current snatches a swimmer. The presence was an explosion, its pull a lode-stone. He followed it through forest, and mountain, over river and moor until he came to the edge of the sea.  
  
If he had possessed a body he would have run fleeter than a deer across the damp sand. His soul blazed as it beheld Vanimórë. Seeing him now Elgalad was astonished at the complexity of him. He was an energy which devoured itself and was renewed, shot through with a wild light, like the sun glancing from the edge of a blade. He was magnificent, dangerous, and Elgalad loved him.  
  
_ My love. _  
  
Vanimórë had turned his back to the sea, eyes hidden by the sweep of lashes, his head bent. The wind rushed out of the south, cast out his hair in a black oriflamme.  
_ How can I bear this? _ he asked.  
  
Elgalad wanted to take the desolate figure in his arms. _I would wish nothing different,_ he said.  
  
_Age upon Age of the world, and I can never touch thee, never hold thee, only look upon thine unwithered body and remember._  
  
_I am not there, Vanimórë. I have waited for thee. I am_ always _ with thee. _  
  
_I could have loved thee without possessing thee! _  
  
_I needed thee to possess me. I was thine. I had desires, too. I told thee I died of love, but I would have died without it. _  
  
The sky over the sea turned black, the waters shone like beaten metal. Spears of lightning cracked across the storm front as Vanimórë's grief detonated. His eyes were white as the lightning birthed in them. He vanished, part of the wildness, the wind.  
  
_My love, hear me...! _  
  
But Vanimórë was too consumed by his grief to have heard anything. Elgalad followed him.  
  
New Cuiviénen. A gem in the heart of the world, almost untouched by the ending of the Fourth Age. He had brought Elgalad here.  
  
Glorfindel was waiting.  
  
"I felt thee." Reaching out, he embraced Vanimórë like a brother.  
  
"I come to see him."  
  
"Vanimórë." The ice-blue eyes held his. They held pity. "Fëanor spoke to me. What can I say to thee? This is not wise."  
  
"I _will _ see him, Glorfindel." Uncompromising as iron.  
  
A nod. "I know. And so would I."  
  
  
***  
  
  
Three thousand years? How could it be? Vanimórë walked down the hallway as if he trod the path to his own execution. He put his hand on the door, opened it.  
  
The room was filled with sunlight. A breeze rippled the drapes, stirred the silver hair. A soft sheet was drawn to his waist. His eyes were open, clear as water. They still held the last look of overpowering love.  
  
Vanimórë thought he would break, then, explode like those stars he had seen in the deeps of space.  
  
_ No, love, thou wilt not break. Thou knowest not how to break. _  
  
Elgalad watched his body, and wished beyond wishing that he could enter it, his soul meld with it, that he might sit up, reach out his arms. Above all things he wanted to comfort the roaring pain of Vanimórë's soul.  
  
_ Please,_ he said.  
  
Vanimórë crossed to the bed, sank to his knees. His head dropped to the coverlet.  
  
Elgalad's hair was cool and scented under his closed eyes. He groaned into it, then raised his face, watched the pitch cascade of his own hair run over the silver, polluting it, a darkness that blotted Elgalad out as...  
  
He slipped his arms beneath the body and raised him. Elgalad's head fell back in a lovely, helpless curve of alabaster throat, inviting the kisses he pressed upon it. His skin was silk, his lips pliant. But the flesh was cool, no pulse beat, and the folded mouth did not part in response. His arms were lax.  
  
Vanimórë laid him back, tore the sheet away with one move. Lips and teeth and grazed the unresponsive flesh as if passion and need could imbue the unliving body with life, and Elgalad's soul wept.  
  
_Vanimórë, stop this!_  
Hands wound themselves in the black hair and jerked violently. Vanimórë hissed, whirled like a cat into a blow that struck him hard across the face.  
  
_Enough!_ Glorfindel hit him again. _No more. For Eru's sake!_  
  
Air shuddered into Vanimórë's lungs. He covered his face with his hands, raked them roughly through his hair.  
  
Glorfindel moved past him, disposed the body gently, drew up the sheet. The silver hair was tousled. He smoothed it with gentle fingers.  
"Thou knowest he would not wish to see thee thus."  
  
Vanimórë turned slowly, his face white as salt.  
  
Glorfindel straightened, his eyes held love, complete understanding.  
"He is not here."  
  
A flinch touched the purple eyes.  
"This is all I knew. This is what I knew." He reached out and touched the translucent face. "I am mad."  
  
"If thou canst be calm for one moment then thou wouldst feel him." Glorfindel stepped between them until he was flush against Vanimórë's body. "Do not fail us now. Do not fail him! Listen." He laid his hand flat against Vanimórë's chest and the blank, burning eyes shifted to him. A flame stirred in their depths.  
"We did not hold on to thee for naught. Now listen to _him_. Let him through."  
  
Vanimórë forced down the anguish, the madness that gouged at his mind, reached within himself for the control that he had forged in his soul over thousands of years. (_And that failed me when I was with him_) He forced the tumult back until it was contained, a thing tiny and white-hot at his core. His back was against the wall, his hands pressed hard against it. He closed his eyes and was still, quiet as a stone is quiet.  
  
Elgalad's soul stepped through the lowered barrier. Vanimórë reached out — And Elgalad came into his arms.  
  
_I love thee._  
  
_I know, my love._  
  
The fire of that love streamed into Elgalad's soul. So potent it was, had always been. It had burned him to ash.  
  
And he only regretted that he had not been stronger.  
  
_ We can never be parted, Vanimórë._

  
Elgalad stepped back into memory, drew it around him until he could feel Vanimórë's arms, his mouth. Hands in his hair. They slipped to their knees. Elgalad threw back his head as phantom kisses ran down his neck, and he _shone _with the power of remembrance.  
  
_ I am always with thee, my dear and most beloved. My Dark Prince._  
  
And Glorfindel watched until he could watch no more, for some griefs cannot be mended, will never be ended.  
  
The vision of Elgalad melted like mist under the power of the naked sun, and Vanimórë braced his hands upon the floor and bowed his head. There were no words which could reach through his agony but Glorfindel heard Elgalad's plea, and he moved forward, knelt before his opposite and equal, drew the beautiful, broken man into his arms.  
  
It was not as Vanimórë thought, that he had given too little.  
  
It was that he had given too much. ~

 

~~~

 

Here ends _Dark God._

 

 

 


End file.
